Four Years And One Week
by Onari
Summary: What can you say or do to help the most important person in your life when you have stopped knowing him and his life has come apart? A fic about the week in Standford right after Jess death. Dean POV. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Is it really necessary to rub it on?**** No, I do not owe them.**

**Rated: T**

**A/N: Hello everybody! It's been a long time since the last time I posted in this crazy site that we all love, and I said to myself: "let's bug these wonderful people again!" First of all, I want to thank all of you who have contacted me and expressed your encouragement for me to keep writing. You know who you are, and you've been a very important part of this story.**

**Then of course, thanks so much to Emrys, my dear beta. Anything that sounds remotely natural in English might be her doing!**

**I hope you all like the story. Happy reading!**

**Four Years and ****One Week**

-1-

The moment I saw the glow of the fire in the rearview mirror something snapped inside me. I barely remember turning the car round, running up the stairs to Sam's apartment, or kicking the door open. It all happened in a blur of fire, smoke, and suffocating heat. But I remember beating myself up over not being able to orient inside the turmoil. I was a damn good hunter, and given that it wasn't the first time I had been in the apartment, I should have been able to find my way in my sleep. Instead, I was wasting precious seconds groping around like a helpless blind man.

"JESS! NO!"

Sam's scream got through my conscience like a shot of adrenaline, and every fiber of my body flared up. My heart started pounding so hard against my ribcage that I thought it would make a hole in my chest and burst out right there and then. My senses sharpened at once, and I was almost sent on overload due to the sudden clarity of stimuli.

I half rushed half stumbled to my brother's bedroom. When I grabbed the knob of the door, I felt a blistering ache in my palm. Clenching my teeth, I made a conscious effort to ignore the pain and turned the knob open.

"Sam!"

The fire roared as the open door fed it with new oxygen, and I barely had time to duck and avoid the invigorated flames. I spotted Sam sprawled on his bed; he was staring wide-eyed at the ceiling and was oblivious to the chunks of burning wallpaper that flew around him like butterflies on fire. Flames were already catching ferociously on the covers he was lying on. But Sam…He was barely breathing at all, his eyes locked on the ceiling and not making any attempt to save himself.

I'm not sure whether it was the vicious gust of scorching air or the haunted look that was on my little brother's face that knocked the wind out of my lungs. I followed his gaze almost involuntary, already knowing in my heart what I would find: Jessica pinned to the ceiling, with her midsection slashed and her lips half-opened in an eerie attempt at crying out.

I had listened to my Dad's description too often while I was growing up to be foolish now. But somehow, my brain didn't register the scene. It just refused to process it. Instead, I moved on default mode: I had to take my brother outside. It was the only truth. No matter what. No matter how.

I grabbed Sam and roughly pulled him out of the bed. His fingers curled around my arms in a deadly grip and a small whimper left his lips. I doubt he even realized I was the one who was holding him. I was merely the thing that was pulling him away from Jess. I was what he had to fight in order to get back to her.

"No! No, Jess…Jess!" he screamed.

And he fought me, with all he had. Despite my jokes about him being out of shape, he was damn strong. I winced as he dug his nails in my shoulder as he struggled to get over the wall I had become. But the wrestling wasn't the worst. The worst part was hearing Sam crying out his girlfriend's name. _Begging _for her… And God, it hurt so fucking much, because Sam _never_ begged and now that he was sobbing his plea I was forced to deny him. I couldn't save Jess, and I wouldn't let him die with her…I _couldn't let him._

I steeled myself against his pain, against _him_, and focused on breathing through the smoke while, with little to no remorse, I shoved him towards the exit. I was starting to weaken from exhaustion and lack of oxygen, and Sam's resistance was wearing me down faster than the high temperatures. At one point, he almost managed to free himself from my grip. I stumbled backwards a couple of steps and my knees wobbled, but I mustered whatever strength I had left and remained on my feet in time to clasp Sam's arm in extremis just as he threw himself towards the bedroom.

"Sam, _please_," I wheezed.

_Please, look at me. Please, don't fight me. Please, don't _die

My voice was swallowed by the ill-fated roar of the fire as it engulfed what was left of the bedroom. The ceiling had already collapsed —probably just over the bed where Sam had been only minutes before— and the living room would be next if we didn't hurry.

"Sam!" I urged him.

I tried to walk backwards and, with his back against my chest, attempted to pull him with me towards the door.

"Jess…" I thought I heard him whisper one last time.

I was so focused on getting us out that I didn't notice that Sam had stopped fighting me. So when we finally got to the stairs, I pushed him too hard to keep him moving and almost got the both of us rolling down the steps. In the last second, I reached out for the handrail with my burned hand. Swallowing a yelp of pain, I still managed to keep us both from falling.

The throb of my hand was excruciating; I was starting to see white. But as we stumbled our way to safety, forcing gulping mouthfuls of fresh air into our lungs, I kept clinging onto Sam for dear life. But by doing so I was forcing him to follow a pace he —suffering from a sudden fit of coughing— couldn't keep up with anymore.

"Stop," he said weakly in between desperate gasps for breath.

Even though it was the first sign that he acknowledged my presence at all, I didn't look at him. The truth was I didn't want to meet his gaze, because I was afraid to see the naked plea in his eyes while knowing that I would still have to turn it down. For now, the only thing that mattered was moving us away for the fire. As far away as possible.

"Stop!" Sam repeated, more forcefully.

I had every intention of ignoring him, but when his legs gave way, I lost my balance and Sam fell to his knees and dragged me to the ground with him. I automatically reached out for him, cupped the side of his neck, and made a quick scan of him for injuries. He was panting and shaking badly, and his face was a mixture of soot and sweat. But at first view he looked unharmed.

As soon as I made sure that he was all right, the adrenaline began to wear off and my head swam from the realization that my brother could have _died_ in the fire. That was when I started shaking too. I could feel the long, icy fingers of shock crawling up my body, but I knew I couldn't let it settle in yet. I closed my eyes and took a couple of gulps of air to stop the world from spinning, while I clung onto Sam's shoulders to coax him to calm down. Only, I couldn't find the words that needed to be said. The lump in my throat simply wouldn't cooperate. And I wanted to hug him so badly. I _had_ to have him in my arms and feel his heart against my chest. I needed to make sure he was alive and breathing and then hold him forever and never let go.

But I couldn't. No, Dean Winchester just couldn't _hug_ his brother, and I'd be damned if it didn't suck to be me in that moment. Sam needed somebody else, somebody able to provide fucking emotional support and, once again, I was letting my little brother down.

"Dean," he croaked.

Faintly realizing that the sensation of shock I had been trying to put off had actually caught up with me, Sam's voice made me snap out of my thoughts.

"Hey," was the most I could force past my lips.

He was shivering. No wonder, considering that he was only wearing a T-shirt and was slumped on the ground in the middle of a cold night after being pulled out of an inferno.

"Here," I muttered.

Sam glanced at my hands as I took off my jacket and placed it over his shoulders. Then he looked up at me, and our eyes met at last. I don't think it would have hurt more if someone had ripped my heart out of my chest. His eyes were bright with tears and latched onto me so intently, full of a raw, pained need for something. _Anything_.

And what made my heart shatter was to _see_ that he was clutching at the idea that I was the only person who could give it to him. He trusted me, even after having seen his girlfriend ripped open in the ceiling, after having seen the apartment collapse in a burst of flame. If there was someone who could still make it right, it would be me, the self-proclaimed hero who boasted that everything would be fine as long as he was around.

A damn fraud.

"Sammy…"

I didn't hear the sirens or acknowledge the crowd that was slowly gathering around the lawn. I don't think Sam was aware of anything either. We were just looking into each other's eyes, my hands on his shoulders, his hands gripping my arms. And then the most ominous image I have ever seen took place right in front of my eyes.

My Sammy blinked back the tears and I witnessed, almost in slow motion, how his expression went blank and his eyes dulled into a defeated look. The emotion he was displaying just a second before was gone, replaced by…guarded emptiness.

Because I didn't know how to fix Jessica's death, because I had failed him, now he was looking at me the same way Dad had taught us to look at strangers when we didn't want them to get to us. It was a look that Sam had never pulled on me until then. A look that said 'It's been four years and you can't save me anymore.'

Before I realized it, my brother shut himself away from me and I did _nothing_ to stop him. And I had never been more terrified, because what if he was right?

What if I couldn't save him?

What can you say or do to help the most important person in your life when you have stopped knowing him and his life has come apart?

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

**I know I know…quite an introductory chapter…but you know me, I've got a slow way to get things started. The following chapters are planned to be longer ;-) Any comment whatsoever? I'll be more than glad to ****read them!**

**Love xx**


	2. Chapter 2

**Here we go with chapter 2!! Thanks to my beta and all the readers! Love u all xx**

_What can you say or do to help the most important person of your life when you have stopped knowing him and his life has come apart?_

-2-

I sat in the back of the ambulance, with an oxygen mask covering my mouth and nose and a weird feeling of detachment over the rest of my body. A woman doctor was dressing my hand after applying some kind of cream to it. I knew I should be hurting, but I don't recall being in any pain. Actually, I don't recall feeling anything at all. Maybe somebody had gone behind my back and managed to give me some kind of sedative even though I had strongly insisted against it.

I jerked when I felt someone hovering behind me and wrapping a blanket over my shoulders.

"What are you doing?" I asked, protesting weakly.

"Please, sir, stay still," the doctor ordered, tightening her grip on my arm.

"It's just a blanket, sir," the voice of a nurse chimed in from behind.

Annoyed by their condescending tone, I tried to shrug the blanket off, but the nurse put a hand on my shoulders to stop me. That was more that I could stand. Having one person immobilizing my arm and another grabbing my back made me feel like I was trapped.

"Get off me," I growled "I'm not cold."

"You're trembling, sir."

Was I? Funny, I hadn't noticed. But now that she had mentioned it, I felt a chilly sensation numbing my body. But I still didn't want the blanket. And I didn't regret having given my jacket to Sam.

My brother was in the other ambulance about 40 feet from me. He had rejected the oxygen mask with a glare that could have frozen hell. The only thing he had relented to was having his blood pressure taken, and when it was strongly suggested to him that he remain calm and lie down for a while, he had acceded by remaining seated. Otherwise he had ignored the rest of the doctors' babble.

I kept staring at him, studying his movements, conscious of the slightest twitch. I hadn't recovered yet from seeing him shut down on me, right before my eyes. Ever since that moment, I had been feeling a weight on my chest, like a rock was rolling over my throat and my stomach in waves. There was an odd sense of masochistic morbidity in watching Sam from afar now. It was as if I wanted to verify the extent to which he had stopped being the brother I had known and to become aware of how many ways I was going to be unable to fix him.

Sam, on the other hand, kept staring blankly at the burning house while the firemen worked. His lips were pursed in a thin, tense line, and he was clutching fiercely at my jacket which was still around him.

"Sir?... Sir?"

Someone was trying to get my attention. Apparently they had been for a while.

"Sir, can you hear me?"

"Huh," I muttered without moving my lips or bothering to blink.

The two women shared some words between them. The most prominent of what I managed to catch was something about shock.

"I'm fine," I grunted in annoyance.

_And I'm here. So stop talking about me as if I __wasn't._

"Sir, can you look at me for a sec?" the doctor that was dressing my hand asked.

Wait, no. She had already finished with the dressing; I noticed it when I found the energy to tear my eyes away from Sam.

"Are you feeling any pain?" she asked kindly, motioning to my hand with a small tilt of her head.

"No," I answered honestly.

"Are you feeling dizzy, nauseous?"

"No."

"How's your breathing?"

I had to admit the mask was helping.

"Better."

"Good," she said, smiling. "That's good. I'd like you to wear it for a few more minutes, though, okay? Here."

She showed me a small plastic bag with a white pill.

"That's a nasty burn on your hand, and later in the night it's probably going to start throbbing. It can be very uncomfortable. This is a bit stronger than a regular pain-killer. Not much, but enough to help you sleep. Take it if you need it. The pain should get better in a couple of days, and from then on aspirins will be fine. If it gets worse or you don't feel any improvement, go have it checked out at the hospital. Okay?"

"Yeah."

I'd be lying if I said I had been really listening to her —honestly, the burn and whether or not my hand was throbbing were the last things on my mind. And going to the hospital was out of the question. But hey…I had heard her.

"Fine," she said, nodding and handing me the pill. I shoved the plastic envelope inside my pocket and then reached for the mask.

"So, we done here?"

She stopped me from taking the mask off.

"Take it easy. Just a few more minutes," she said, admonishingly. "Then you can go."

She waited for me to nod, and when I did she stood, gave my shoulder a soft squeeze and left me alone with my morose thoughts. My eyes immediately went back to Sam, and I found him exactly how I had left him. His eyes were empty, and his expression set. Stony and broken at the same time. I felt a chill run down my spine and averted my eyes. I wasn't nauseous before, but I was starting to get that way now. And before I could prevent it, the blessed shock receded and unstoppable images rushed before my eyes.

The house on fire.

Sammy surrounded by flames.

Our old house in flames.

Jessica burning on the ceiling.

My mom burning…

Sammy's cries.

Sammy's pain.

I grunted, discarded the damn oxygen mask and buried my face in my hands to try and get a grip on myself. We didn't have time for me to lose it now. I had to keep it together, if not for myself, then for my brother's sake. I had failed him once, I couldn't fail him again. But for Christ's Sake, _it_ had been _there_. The thing that had killed our mother had come back for my little brother and had almost taken him. It had been _too_ close. And his girlfriend had died, and Sam had seen it. And I had seen it, and now I couldn't stop _seeing_ it, and every time I _did see it_, Jessica's features blended with my mother's.

And on top of that, our father wasn't there. He _should_ be there and not who knew where…maybe alive, maybe de-

No, I wasn't ready to follow that train of thought.

I took a deep breath and stood, leaning into the door frame until I was sure I was steady enough. After dropping the blanket inside the ambulance, I moved a few feet to the side and eyed my brother's stance before going around the ambulance and turning my back to him. I took my cell out of my pocket and dialed the familiar number, but it just went directly to voicemail, like it had all those other times.

"Dad…It's Dean," I said, then cleared my throat. "Listen I'm…huh…I'm with Sam, at Stanford. There's been an…" I shook my head and swallowed, snorting inwardly. There had been what? An _accident_? But it was difficult to talk to my dad about Sam's girlfriend. For years, it had been difficult to talk to him about Sam at all. "Look, something happened. A fire and I…Sam and I need you to come. Please, come." God, I hated how childish that sounded, "Huh, just…call me back, okay? Dad, _call me back._"

I sighed and ended the call. I wasn't feeling any better. If anything, I felt a little bit emptier after not being able to get hold of my father. If he was there, everything would be different. My father would have known how to help Sam. He wouldn't be so damn lost, not John Winchester. He would know exactly what to do, instead of hiding by the side of an ambulance feeling as if the ground would crumble beneath his feet if he so much as breathed in any direction.

"Hey, man," I felt a hand on my shoulder and, heart pounding, I swirled around. "You're Sam's brother, Dean, right?"

A black guy with a kind smile and sympathetic eyes was right by my side, looking at me questioningly. Seeming to realize how I had tensed, he immediately dropped his hand and took a step back to give me some space.

"Who are you?" I asked warily.

"I'm Simon. I'm a friend of your brother's," he answered calmly. "We heard what happened. I'm sorry, man…It's…it's terrible."

I glanced over his shoulder to locate Sam. He was right where I had left him, next to the back of his ambulance. But now there were four other kids, three girls and a guy, around him. Two of the girls were crying, and the third had wrapped her arms around Sam and was holding him tight. The guy had his hand on my brother's shoulder and was saying something to him. Sam was nodding and hugging the girl back.

I felt a wave of bitterness wash over me as I watched those people with Sam, comforting Sam, holding Sam, doing everything I had been unable to do. I knew that it was my place, that I should be the one supporting my brother in those moments. I was his family.

On the other hand, I admitted in defeat, I had no right to be jealous of those people or mad because they cared. After all, they had been with Sam during the last four years. They probably knew Sam better than I did now, and they had known Jess. Probably they had loved her too. Maybe they were his family now.

"Dean? Are you alright?" Simon asked with his voice full of concern.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I answered absently as I went to run a hand through my hair. I grimaced when I instinctively raised my bandaged one.

"How's your hand?"

"Looks worse than it is," I said, dismissing the injury. "What do you want, Simon?"

I didn't intend to be rude to him. The guy seemed genuinely concerned or, at least, he was trying his best to be nice to his friend's brother. He deserved some sort of credit for that. Unfortunately, I wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. If he felt offended, he didn't show it. I guess he deserved the credit for that too.

"Well, listen…" he started. "I don't know if you had any other plans, but some friends and I were wondering if you have any place to stay tonight. We wanted to tell you that you can come crash with us. We can find room for you. It's just that…you know, we think Sam shouldn't be alone right now."

Something tingled inside me, something that was debating whether or not I should feel offended by the implication that Sam would be alone if he was _only_ with me. But I had no strength left to bother with my wounded pride. Probably Simon was right, and anyway I knew he hadn't meant to be accusing. As a matter of fact, it had been very considerate of him to come to me and ask _me_ first, as if I had a say in the matter. As if he really believed I knew what was best for my brother.

I couldn't hate good old Simon. His kindness was only making me feel miserable.

"Thanks, Simon. I'm sure Sam will appreciate it," I said tiredly. "Don't worry about me, I'll just find a room in town."

Simon frowned and shook his head vehemently.

"No, man. You don't have to do that. We'll make room for the two of you, seriously. Sam's family is family. We can work it out."

_Yeah…_You_, maybe. But _I _can't._

Allowing those people to take care of my brother was one thing. Being there to witness it was something completely different. I would be out of place. I was already feeling out of place as it was.

"It's cool, man," I insisted. "It won't be hard to find a motel."

"Are you sure?"

Simon seemed puzzled. I could almost hear his mind rewinding our conversation to make sure he hadn't implied they didn't want me with them. The least I could do was let him off the hook.

"I'm sure. Don't worry."

"Okay," Simon said, shrugging.

_Yeah, Simon. I'm a weird guy. Nice to meet you._

"I'll tell Sam then. Are they done with your hand? You coming?" He nodded towards the group.

"Yeah," I reluctantly muttered before following him.

As we approached the group, their conversation reached our ears, and I realized with a pang of sorrow that I couldn't look Sam in the eye. I was _scared_ of my brother…scared of what I would find if I met his gaze. Scared of not being able to give him what he needed. And especially, terrified of him not needing me at all.

"Hey, guys," Simon said, announcing our presence. He flashed a supportive smile at Sam and gave him a light pat on the arm.

"You must be Dean," one of the girls said. "I'm Rebecca."

"Rebecca," I repeated, nodding.

The guy's name was Zach, and he was Rebecca's brother. The other two girls were Christine and Martha, and both were friends of Sam and Jess. Once the introductions were over, I braced myself and raised my eyes to find my brother's. He was looking back at me, his eyes flickering gravely over my hand and back to my eyes.

_You okay?_

I gave him a tempered smile.

_Yeah._

Jesus, it felt good to know our connection wasn't completely gone.

I arched an eyebrow.

_You?_

The question was lame, but I had to ask it anyway. Sam averted his eyes and looked down without answering. I gulped and had to deal with what it implied.

"So, Sam," Simon chimed in.

I took a deep breath and kept a sideways glance on Sam while his friend spoke.

"Dean and I've been talking, and we think you should come over and stay with us for a while. You can crash at my place. I've got a spare bed. Or maybe…"

"You going?" Sam interrupted him, his voice high-pitched as his eyes darted toward me with a hint of…

_Panic?_

"No!" I replied at once.

Maybe my answer was a bit too harsh, a little too fast. But the strong emotion that had flickered behind my brother's eyes had taken me by surprise. And in a way, it was upsetting that the first thing that had crossed Sam's mind was that I was leaving him. It was upsetting, and it hurt.

"Sam, no," I repeated, a little softer this time, looking him in the eye. "I'll just find myself a room in town."

I saw him swallow, his façade of coolness wavering ever so slightly. I wavered myself, unsure of what he wanted me to do.

"Or I can…go with you if you want." I hesitated then and glanced at Simon for confirmation. He nodded earnestly, but Sam didn't look at him. His gaze never left mine.

"Can't we just get a room together, like always?" he asked tensely.

His voice was still hoarse after the smoke inhalation, and its tone sounded broken. Wrong. The whole situation was wrong. How could he be seriously _asking_ me that?

"Of course, kiddo," I answered, without even realizing I had called him 'kiddo' in front of a bunch of strangers. They simply didn't exist right now. "If that's what you want."

Apparently Sam felt the same way, because he didn't even frown at the pet name.

"Yeah," he said, then gulped and looked down again.

I nodded. I didn't understand it, I could hardly believe it, and I was still scared shitless of it. But the shade of need I had glimpsed in him was enough to wipe out all my doubts for the time being. If Sammy thought that that was what he needed, that's what he was going to get.

"Are you sure, Sam?" Rebecca asked gently.

She, along with the rest of Sam's friends, had kept herself politely away from the conversation. But now she and the others wanted to make sure Sam was doing the right thing. I had to remind myself that they weren't a menace, and that I owed them at least the same courtesy. So I let Sam answer for himself.

"Yeah, I'm sure," he muttered. Then he shook his head lightly and licked his lips before looking at them, "Hey guys, thanks, really. For coming, and for your offer…"

"Don't mention it, Sam."

"Yeah, you don't have to explain yourself."

"We're so sorry, Sam," Martha said. Her voice broke as she squeezed Sam's arm. "I can't believe that Jess…"

"Yeah," Sam said, and set his jaw. "Yeah, I know."

I watched as he slipped his mask firmly in place and it worried me, because I was starting to notice things I hadn't before. Like the way he seemed uncomfortable around Simon and the others, and the clipped voice he used to talk to them. They were subtle things, and I was pretty sure the others couldn't tell the difference, but I had raised Sam and basically taught him all that he knew about acting. I always knew when he was being himself and when he was pretending.

Right now, he was pretending. And I couldn't help but feel bad for his friends, because they seemed to be good people, and I was pretty sure Sam used to be at ease with them. For the last four years, Sam had belonged with them, shared their lives, laughed and cried with them. Now, overnight, Sam was treating them like strangers and keeping them at a distance.

I guess the part of me that felt possessive about my brother was secretly glad. But the bigger part that wanted him happy was devastated. And in my book, the latter would always beat the former.

"I'll be in the car," he said to me.

Wordlessly I watched him as he gently disentangled himself from his friends' hold—or at least, the people that a few hours before he must have considered his friends— and headed down the street to the Impala. I looked up at Simon and the others and struggled to find the right words to say.

"Huh, thanks, guys," I said awkwardly. "I know Sam appreciates you being here."

Well, as I said, I had taught Sam everything he knew about lying.

Zach shook his head, Christine shrugged, and Martha and Rebecca smiled mildly at me.

"It's okay." Simon said, summarizing their sentiment. "We're here if you guys need us. Anything, anytime, alright? Sam knows where to find us."

"Take care of him," Christine added.

"I will," I assured them. _At least I'll try not to screw it up this time_. "And…huh, sorry…about Jess. She was your friend too."

Martha's chin quivered, and Christine put her arm around her friend's waist to pull her closer. The others nodded.

"We'll see you around, Dean," Simon said. He smiled at me, and then they walked away, tossing sad glances at the burning building.

I sighed and watched the still-busy firemen for a couple of minutes before turning around and going to Sam. He was at the back of the car, rummaging in the trunk, so I went around the Impala to join him. I was uneasy about not being able to see his face behind the open door of the trunk, but when I could finally make his expression, I almost flinched at the mix of suppressed emotions held in the brief glance he spared me.

There was resolve in his eyes, but also anger; the kind that is cold and scorching at the same time, the kind that consumes you from within while it pushes you to keep on with a semblance of purpose. I had seen that shine in my father's eyes far too often to not recognize it now. And until then, I hadn't imagined anything as terrible as seeing it in my little brother's eyes.

There was also pain, sadness. Fear. But they were purposely shoved under the primal layer of cool determination Sammy was trying to pull out for the rest of the world. As much as it hurt that he considered me part of _that_ world, though, I wasn't. I _could_ see how absolutely lost he felt inside, how scared that sensation made him feel and how much he was hating himself for a weakness he didn't feel entitled to show.

Maybe that was why he didn't allow himself to keep eye contact for too long. I could understand that. It wouldn't be the first time I avoided his eyes, because I knew there were moments when he, simply, could read too much in mine.

"We have work to do," he said. His voice was low, achingly restrained.

He slammed the trunk closed and, for once, I forgot to worry about my car.

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

**TBC...You won't get rid of me that easily **


	3. Chapter 3

"_We have work to do," he said. His voice was low, achingly restrained._

_He slammed the trunk closed and, for once, I forgot to worry about my car._

-3-

Giving me his back, my brother turned towards the building. His words still hung in the air along with the metallic echo of the closed trunk. I could see he was holding his breath in anticipation of me saying something. It was almost as if he was daring me to, almost as if a response from me would give him the excuse to bolt. But I had no intention of picking a fight. He wouldn't make me take a side, because there were no _sides_.

"Yeah, we do," I rasped. "But not tonight."

Sam swirled and glared at me in defiance and with a spark of anger that reminded me too much of the vicious fire that had destroyed his life in the first place.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he growled between clenched teeth.

"From the looks of it, the firemen are going to be working for a while. They have to make sure the fire doesn't revive or spread out to the adjacent buildings."

"So we wait," he grunted.

"Even after they put out the fire, they'll probably go in to check the place out. There'll be an investigation and the place will be under surveillance, at least until tomorrow. There's no way we can go in now."

Sam shook his head. More than disagreement, his gesture held something of denial.

"It could be in there, Dean," he insisted, nostrils flaring. "It could still be in there."

"I don't think so."

"How can you be so sure?!"

"Sam…" I sighed, absently rubbing my injured hand.

God, I was tired. I couldn't say I had an answer for him; I was only working on a gut instinct. But I _knew_ I was right. Besides, what I had said about the surveillance was true, and Sam knew it. More importantly though was the fact that there was no way I was letting my little brother go back into that apartment so soon. I simply couldn't do that right now.

Fortunately, Sam bit his lip and relented, averting his eyes and fixing them on the final throes of the fire as the emergency personnel worked. His shoulders slumped in defeat once more, and I was relieved that he wasn't going to fight me. But I also felt guilty, because somehow I was responsible for the speed at which he was falling apart since I had forced him to give up the last straw of determination that was keeping him together.

"Hey," I said, ghosting a hand over his arm and brushing my leather jacket that was still placed over his shoulders.

Sam tilted his chin to indicate he had heard me, but he still refused to look at me.

"Come on, there's nothing else we can do right now, man," I coaxed him. "Let's go find a motel?"

_You and me, Sammy_. _You and me._

"No," he whispered and then swallowed thickly. I could see that he was self-conscious about how his voice trembled.

He looked terrible. His skin was taking an ashen tone and when he leaned slightly against the trunk of the car, it didn't take a genius to guess that he was getting dizzy. Even his lips were becoming purple.

"Sam, we _can't_ go inside now," I said, still trying to reason with him. He wasn't up for it, and neither was I.

"It's not that…"

"Then what is it?" I asked, and forced myself to swallow down a wave of frustration.

"Jess—" Sam's Adam's apple wobbled, "She's still in there. I can't…leave her _there_. I won't."

I shook my head with a weary sigh. I could tell him I doubted there was anything left of Jessica to wait for, but that would be way too cruel. It wasn't Sam's fault that staying there was making me feel like a failure, nor that I wasn't too good at dealing with helplessness. Those were my issues, and Jessica was his girlfriend.

If it had been him inside the building, no force in the universe would have made me leave that spot. I also knew there would be no way to make him leave against his will.

If it had been him inside the building, I…I would have just…

_No. No, no, no…_

"Alright," I said, and then nodded.

Sam bit his lip harder and nodded back, but he still kept his eyes glued to the ground. I stepped closer, needing to feel him next to me and aching to offer him some kind of comfort. But because I didn't know how to comfort him, I ended up just leaning against the trunk by his side.

I'm not sure how long we stayed like that, but I remember being painfully aware of every single movement that Sam made; how he shifted wearily trying to stay on his feet, every time he licked his lips, drained of color, or ran his hand over his forehead which was shimmering in cold sweat. We waited and waited. I could feel the heat emanating from his body as eventually he listed against me. My body tingled protectively, and it took all I had in me not to wrap an arm around his shoulders and just bundle him into the car to get him out of there before he passed out. Sam shouldn't be there. He should be resting in a warm, safe room, where he could let his guard down and I could do the same. And then, maybe we could look in each other's eyes and somehow, _somehow_, will it all to be alright.

I was about to suggest that we wait in the car —where at least we would be sitting down—when a squad of paramedics, escorted by firemen, came out of the building. They were carrying a stretcher with a black plastic bag on it.

Sam straightened with a muffled grunt, and I tensed when he half-ran, half-staggered towards the group. The whole time, his eyes were fastened on the amorphous plastic bag. He was trying to meet the paramedics before they loaded their burden on the ambulance that would take his lover's body away. Swearing under my breath, I rushed behind him, bracing myself for the terrible scenario of having to pry my brother's hands off of his burned girlfriend's corpse.

However, one of the paramedics seemed to read Sam's intentions too and jumped in my brother's way to stop him. Sam stiffened when the stranger touched him, and I could see by his stance that he was ready to shove the guy out of the way. The paramedic was playing with fire. My brother wasn't on top of his game, but I knew that if he fought he'd probably win.

"Hey," I said, eyeing the paramedic meaningfully and quietly prompting him to back away. "I got him."

The man gave me a once over before giving a curt nod and stepping aside. I honestly expected Sam to jump towards the ambulance as soon as he was released. What really happened was that the moment he lost the support of the paramedic, my brother swayed and would have fallen to the ground if I hadn't caught him from behind in time.

"Sammy..."

I placed an arm around his stomach to steady him, and he let out the softest of moans to protest being stopped all over again. The paramedics were loading Jessica's body on the vehicle, and Sam's clammy hands were pulling at my arm and wrist.

"Sam, don't," I ordered, my voice gentle, but my tone firm.

Sam clasped my arm tightly and sagged a bit more against my chest, his eyes fixed straight ahead. Making sure that I would have a good hold on him if his legs gave way, I shifted to balance us both. But other than letting him use me as support, I was afraid to touch him, because I was unsure of what his reaction would be if I did. He showed no sign that he could hear me, and the only signs that he was alive were the deadly grip he had on my arm and the tremors that were starting to take over his body.

"Sammy? C'mon," I whispered against his shoulder after the ambulance door was closed and the vehicle took off. "It's over."

I realized just how inappropriate those words were the moment they came out of my mouth, whether they referred to the life Sam had tried to build for himself, or, more ironically, to the pain for the loss of a life that had just _started. _But Sam made no comment and complied. His Winchester mask hadn't survived the removal of Jessica's corpse and now he was a mess. An empty, emotionally spent, worn out mess that leaned dazedly on me as I gave him a little pull and guided him to the car.

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

I found a cheap rat-hole of a motel about twenty minutes out of town. It wasn't the time to be picky, because I needed to get us somewhere private while I still could reach my brother. He had remained silent during the whole ride, his eyes glazed but devoid of tears. Even though the heater was at full blast, he kept his arms wrapped tightly against his body like he was cold. I swallowed hard. Sam's behavior was freaking me out, but at least he was responsive. At least to me. At least so far.

That's why I had to hurry.

I checked us in and went back to the car. Sam met my eyes for a second, then dropped his gaze and followed me to the room. Finally there, he sat heavily on his bed as I left my duffel bag on the floor. Then, I become conscious for the first time that Sam's bag wasn't there anymore. It probably burned up along with the rest of his stuff. And even though clothes and books where certainly replaceable, the thought made me feel unaccountably sad.

Sam remained still while I unpacked. When I finished, I sat across from him on my bed and bumped his knee with mine to grab his attention.

"We'll go get you some clothes tomorrow," I told him matter-of-factly. I didn't want to make it sound as if it was a big deal, "You can use something of mine tonight. I don't know, something more comfortable?"

Sam shook his head no. I took a deep breath, knowing what my brother was thinking.

"Sam, you _need_ to get some rest," I told him. "You gotta at least try."

"I don't think I can," he avowed frailly.

I nodded in understanding. I could imagine what he was seeing every time he closed his eyes. But that wasn't the point. The point was that the next few days were going to be hell, and he'd need all his strength to get through them. I couldn't be sure of what the following day would bring, but at least for that first night, I was going to make sure that Sam got some sleep.

"Here," I muttered, fishing in my pocket for the pill the doctor had given me before. Then I reached out for the bottle of water that was on the bedside table. "Take this."

Sam eyed the pill with a little frown. I cringed internally, because I hated pain-killers with a passion—if there was anything that scared the crap out of me, it was feeling numb— and I was aware that Sam did too.

"What is it?" he asked suspiciously.

"It'll help you sleep," I said, my stomach in knots.

God, this sucked. I _hated_ to drug my brother and now he'd probably hate me too. But he just glanced at me, then back at the pill. Then he took it without objecting. His implicit trust in me and my word elicited a pang of guilt that tightened my throat. The truth was I really had no damn clue how to make this right for him, and it felt wrong to be acting like I did.

Suddenly, when he was about to reach out for the water, he froze. His face broke into an expression of complete desolation and doubt. It took a moment for me to realize what was stopping him: if he took the glass of water, both of his hands would be busy and he wouldn't be able to keep my jacket around his shoulders. It was painful to see how my brother, who was the strongest person I knew beside my father, was torn apart over such a simple decision.

Without thinking, I put a hand on his shoulder, effectively keeping the jacket in place. That simple physical contact seemed to put my flip-flopping stomach at ease, but I could only wonder if it was having the same effect on him. Then Sam met my eyes and for the briefest of seconds I could see gratitude flashing behind his pupils. After a beat, his eyes dulled again, but he took the water bottle and swallowed the pill. As soon as he could spare a hand, he fisted my jacket again and I, reluctantly, released it.

"Lay down." My voice was thick, and I knew I couldn't blame the smoke anymore.

"Are you gonna leave?" he asked, thinly.

"What?"

"You wanted to go. You wanted me to go with Simon and the others and leave."

"I wasn't leaving, Sam. I just thought—"

"It's okay… I mean, I understand. You don't have to be here."

I closed my eyes and sighed internally. If only I could read him like I used to. One minute he was looking for an excuse to jump down my throat, and the next he was looking at me as if I was the only person left in the world. I just wished I could tell if he wanted me there or not.

"Well, tonight I'm not going anywhere," I replied. It was vague, but at least it was a safe answer. "Just lay down, alright?"

He stared at me for a minute, but his eyelids were starting to droop. He fought the pull of sleepiness at first but then finally complied and lay on his side. Having given up getting him to wear anything else, I just took a spare blanket out of the closet and covered him. Then I turned off the light and sat on a chair next to the bed allowing his eyes to find mine in the dark whenever he searched for them during the shorter and shorter spaces of time he was able to keep his eyes open between drowsy blinks.

I don't remember if my hand throbbed or not. But I do remember watching my little brother's face as his muscles slowly relaxed. I remember watching him sleep through the night holding my jacket tightly. I remember thinking that it was good that a part of me was wrapped around him and apparently gave him some comfort.

But I still couldn't shake off the feeling that it should have been my arms cradling him.

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

**I know I know, shorter than usual, but it was like the right place to leave it...I hope. Thanks to all the readers!! And the biggest hug for my beta! To be continued...**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello everybody! Here we go! Thanks again to all of you who keep reading and especially thanks to Em to dedicate her precious time to revise my ramblings!**

-4-

The following morning I got up around eight. Sam was still dead to the world, and he didn't even stir when I rummaged through the room. I decided to let him be for a while and take a shower. To say I had barely slept would be a huge understatement, and I felt sore and more than a bit unsteady on my feet. A shower would help clear my head and soothe my muscles. With a bit of luck, Sam would be able to sleep for a few more hours, which would give me time to think of a plan.

I was right about the shower, it was a blessing. I groaned at the invigorating massage of the hot water over my back and shoulders. That, combined with the cool touch of the wall tiles against my forehead, succeeded in completing the hard task of rousing me and easing the stiffness in my limbs. Too bad that I had to keep my bandaged hand dry. If Sam had seen me showering in such a weird fashion he wouldn't have let me live it down. The thought of my brother teasing me made me smile, but the smile died only seconds after it appeared. I wondered when I'd actually see Sam smile again.

I exited the shower and got dressed, wincing and grunting every time I instinctively tried to use my hand. All the while, I tried to pay attention to any noises coming from the room that would mean Sam was already awake. I didn't hear anything at first, and I started to relax.

Then it became obvious that whatever deity was in charge of distributing luck into the world never even invited the Winchesters to join the line.

I bolted to the door as soon as I heard my brother's sounds of distress, and I was back in the room before I could even blink. I didn't know what to expect, but as sure as hell it wasn't what I found. Sam was up, pacing the room like a caged lion, eyes darting frantically around him but focusing nowhere. I glanced at the bed he had been sleeping in and saw my jacket on it over the tossed covers.

_What the hell…?_

It had been years since the last time Sam had been woken up by bad dreams. And anyway, Sam didn't seem like he was wrestling his way out of the cobwebs of a nightmare. He appeared fully awake and profoundly upset.

"Sam?" I called him tentatively, having no clue about what was getting him so worked up.

"It's everywhere, Dean. It's everywhere," he mumbled with trepidation, grabbing his clothes nervously, fisting his hair, all the time pacing as if looking for a way out of the small room.

"Whoa, dude, slow down," I said calmly, trying to approach him.

He jerked away from me, his breath hitching, and my own catching painfully in my throat. I swallowed my alarm and raised my palms to appear less menacing.

"Sam, what is it?"

"It's everywhere! It's fucking everywhere! I can't get it off me!" he panted, sounding panicky and looking frenetic.

In short, on the verge of hysterics.

"What's everywhere?" I asked, tossing a look around, scanning the room for anything off, desperately looking for whatever it was that had set my brother so on edge. When he didn't answer my heart rate took off to the sky."

"Sammy? Sam!" I fought for his attention, not quite daring to touch him. "What.Is.Everywhere?"

"Can't you smell it?" Sam snapped, close to hyperventilating now.

I couldn't. I had no idea of what he was talking about, but one thing was for sure: if he didn't calm down he was going to pass out in a matter of seconds.

With my hands up, I circled him cautiously until I had him cornered between the beds. He glared at me with blood-shot eyes, the same reaction I would expect from a jumpy, wounded beast threatened by a predator. I had to swallow bile when I realized that I was basically hunting my little brother, using movements learned from hunting my own kind of prey.

"Smell what?"

"The smoke! The smoke! It's everywhere!" he cried, clasping his head.

I shook my head almost imperceptibly, absolutely puzzled. My mouth opened, and then closed, because I just couldn't bring myself to say anything.

And suddenly, it hit me.

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit!_

I should have seen it coming. Or at least, I should have been quicker to understand what he was talking about. I knew from experience that a couple of hours in a stuffy bar were enough to adhere the acrid smell of smoke to a person like a barnacle. Last night, we were too out of it to notice, but now the smell of smoke was obvious. Sam had slept in the same clothes that he had been wearing the previous night. And I'd be damned if that long hair of his was helping at all. He couldn't run from the smell, he could only breathe it in. And he was freaking out. Absolutely, downright freaking the hell out.

"Sam, you need to calm down."

Wow, I was impressed. Listening to myself, I could almost believe _I_ was staying calm.

"Sam, c'mon sit down."

"No! You don't…I can't…"

He slapped my hands away when I reached out for him, but I was quick and grabbed his wrists to still him. There was a time when I was able to grab both his wrists with only one hand and use the other to squeeze his shoulder. But back then, in that time it would have been enough to look at him in the eye and whisper some silly reassurance about how everything would be okay, and he would believe me.

Right now, he was jerking, trying to get away from my grasp, and his breathing was nothing but a succession of short, shallow gasps. I set my jaw, tightened my grip and brusquely shoved him against the bed to make him sit down. Then without letting go, I crouched in front of him. I was squeezing him so hard that it had to be painful, but he seemed completely oblivious of me. Instead, he was struggling to get up, struggling to get some air into his lungs, struggling to keep the smell out…just struggling. And failing.

"Sam," I hissed, teeth-clenched, trying to get to him. I could feel his pulse racing against my thumbs. I needed to reach him _now_. "Look.At.Me."

"Dean, no…" he said, chokingly. His eyes were shiny with unshed tears, but I knew he wasn't really _crying_. His tears came from the effort to get oxygen. "Please, we have to get out, the smoke is…"

"There's no smoke, man," I stated as evenly as I could.

"But I can smell it! Don't you…"

"Sammy, hey, listen to me." I loosened his wrists for a second and then squeezed them tighter again, to get his attention. "There's no smoke, okay? Trust me on this."

Sam's eyes flickered over mine, and I blinked back the emotion that his simple look caused to rise up in me. He wanted to believe me. He trusted me, but he could feel the smoke around him too clearly. He didn't really understand what was going on at all.

"Sam, it's only the smell. It's gotten in the room, you understand? It's on your clothes, okay?" I assured him firmly. And then, just to make sure he was getting the point straight, I repeated. "But there's no smoke. _There's no fire._"

A look of confusion washed over him. He started to pull away, and this time I reluctantly released his wrists. Immediately, he brought his shaky hands to his head and combed back his hair with his fingers; the harsh movement pulled the too long curls away from his face. Already missing the contact with him, I sat back on my own bed and watched closely as he bent forward to rest his elbows on his knees and pant heavily. His cheeks were flushed, and he still looked like he was suffocating.

"You with me there?" I rasped. He nodded weakly. "Man, you need to breathe _now._"

He glared at me with a mixture of aggravation and…shame maybe. Probably frustration too. He was choking, unconsciously blocking the offending smoky air, and I had nothing but platitudes. I bent forward so that ours knees were almost touching. I narrowed my eyes and lowered my voice. I turned the whole room into a small bubble that contained only us. Outside was the world.

"Breathe through your mouth, Sam," I ordered.

It was the only thing I could come up with, but it made sense, didn't it? After all, he needed to get air while blocking the smell of it. Sam seemed to agree with me. He bit his lower lip, and his Adam's apple wobbled as he braced himself to comply. His lips parted tentatively, and he gulped in a whistling puff of air.

"There you go." I coached him through it. "Now let it go. Easy."

He breathed out slowly as a tear rolled down his cheek. He didn't bother to wipe it away, but he did look down in an attempt to escape my scrutiny. I folded my hands over my knees and twisted them, resisting the urge to wipe that tear away. Then I looked down too, allowing him as much privacy as I could without bursting the safe bubble where I had managed to get him breathing. He took another shaky mouthful of air, and then another. Some of his inhalations threatened to turn into heaving sobs, but he kept them in check, and I wasn't sure whether I should be proud or saddened by his success.

After a while his breath evened out considerably, and I dared look up at him. He was very pale and sweaty again. But although Sam kept his eyes closed and he was clearly light-headed as an aftereffect of the oxygen deprivation, he was holding his own.

"Go take a shower, Sam," I whispered.

He swallowed and gave a curt nod. Avoiding my eyes, he stood up and swayed for a moment. My muscles tensed, but Sam steadied himself, headed to the bathroom and closed the door behind him. When I heard water running I finally let out the breath I had been holding. All things considered, I thought I had handled it all pretty well. As a matter of fact I was quite surprised by how calmly I had kept the situation under control.

But my feelings of accomplishment quickly evaporated when I tried to stand up, and I couldn't move. Swallowing, I ran my hands through my hair and felt them shaking against my scalp. I groaned. My heart was racing, my head was buzzing, and I could only bury my face in my hands and force myself to breathe into them. Hell, I had just seen my little brother overcome by a panic attack, and damn me for not anticipating it, for not getting to him earlier, for not being _there_ when he woke up…

"Fuck," I swore under my breath. "Fuck," I repeated, my voice thinner, my throat tighter.

I let a sudden wave of rage take me over, because rage felt better than fear. It gave me the energy to stand up and filled the void in the pit of my stomach with fire while it warmed the chilly stiffness of my frozen limbs.

And then, I took my anger out on the room in a controlled flurry of activity. I stripped both my bed and Sam's and discarded the sheets in a bundle. I opened all the windows and drew back the curtains then inhaled the cool, clean morning breeze as it entered the room.

The room's temperature dropped, but I wanted it well ventilated. I wasn't allowing myself anymore slip-ups today, and I'd be damned if there was even a hint of smoke smell left when Sam got out of the bathroom. I left my jacket next to the window and buried the previous night's clothes in the deepest corner of my duffle, where I planned to keep them until I got the chance to take them to the laundry. Then I chose some stuff for Sam, because he'd have to…_need_ to...change his clothes. Finally, already worn out even though it was only around nine in the morning, I sat back down on my bed.

Sam exited the bathroom a few minutes later with his hair dripping and a towel wrapped around his waist. I looked up in time to catch him shiver in the cold room, and I mentally slapped myself. But he didn't complain about the open windows, just glanced at them. When he noticed the bundles of linens in the corner, his eyes flickered over mine. I knew that he knew what I had done, and I could tell he was feeling suddenly self-conscious about his previous episode. He swallowed again, struggling for something to say, and I wasn't sure whether it was going to be "Thank you," or "I'm sorry," but I knew there was no need for him to say either.

"There," I nodded my head to point out the pile of clothes I had left on his bed. "But I don't know if they're gonna fit you, man. You're freakishly tall."

He eyed the clothes, and the ghost of a smirk flashed over his lips. Brief as it was though, that smile went a long way to lifting the weight off my chest.

"We'll have to go get you something to wear today, anyway," I commented, as I proceeded to close the windows and Sam got dressed.

"We have to go back to the apartment," he stated flatly.

"Yeah." I sighed inwardly. "I know."

I turned around to find him fully dressed. In any other situation, I would have laughed at the strange sight of my clothes on him. Not that they didn't fit him; the shirt suited him just fine, and the jeans had been too long for me since I bought them. It was more that he looked funny in my style of clothing. And yet, despite the weird figure Sam presented, at that moment I couldn't manage even a little smile. It wasn't the time, and neither of us was in the mood.

"I tried to reach Dad," I said carefully, although I really meant it to sound reassuring and casual. What I really wanted to say was 'I've tried to call in the cavalry' or 'I know that you need him more than you need me right now, and it's okay. I understand.' I'm not sure if Sam caught my true meaning, but when he looked at me intently, I felt myself squirming under the force of his gaze. I cleared my throat and gave a light shrug. "Still nothing, but I'll keep trying."

"Yeah," he muttered in the same lifeless tone.

He bent to tie his shoelaces and suddenly froze.

"Fuck," he blurted out.

"What is it?"

"Fuck, Dean…how could I forget?"

"Forget what?"

"To call them…Jess' parents."

"Oh."

Well, I could think of a couple of reasons why calling anybody had been about the last thing on my brother's mind the previous night. I wasn't going to let him beat himself up over that now.

"You don't have to do it, Sam. I'm sure that the police would have called them already," I said, feeling a little uncomfortable.

"Yeah, but I should have done it," he said, shaking his head and reaching into his pocket.

Only it was _my_ pocket he was reaching into and, of course, his cell was nowhere to be found. Frustrated, he clenched his fist over the fabric and swore under his breath.

It looked like we'd be buying a new cell phone too.

"Use mine," I offered.

He hated this, having to depend on others so much. But he accepted my cell anyway, although he wouldn't look at me when he took it out of my hand. We were both on edge, and I knew the moment I said the wrong thing or he took my concern the wrong way, he'd snap at me and then things would be that much harder to fix.

He stared at the telephone in his hand and hesitated. It was my cue to give him some privacy.

"Listen, I'm gonna go grab some breakfast. You get ready. I'll meet you in the car."

I didn't wait to see him nod. I pretended not to notice the way he caught his breath until I was out the door. But I did hear the beginning of his conversation while I was walking away.

"Mrs. Moore? It's Sam…I'm so sorry…"

I cringed at his voice, because it was the voice of a hunter, the voice he used to talk to victims during jobs. Definitely not how my Sammy should sound right then. The cold facade he was using to deal with all this pain was disconcerting. But then I remembered the touch of panic he'd experienced right after waking up, and suddenly the air was thickening around me.

I realized I couldn't anticipate Sam's reactions anymore, and that thought was as unsettling as pacing dangerous ground was. Sam had always been different from our father and me. Dad and I weren't very good at showing emotions in daily life. Only when we were hunting would either of us allow any show of emotion, and then we lashed out. It was our release. We hunted with responsibility, but also with passion. Sammy was usually the other way around; he wore his emotions on his sleeve every day, hiding them only out of pride or a wish to fit in with us. But, hunting was just a job for him, and he was able to keep a level head during gigs.

Now the frontiers between his two sides were fading. The hunt had become personal, and he was trying hard to act professionally, to detach himself from the job so that he could be more efficient. _Because it would hurt less_. But he couldn't keep his guard up 24/7, and as a result he was riding up and down a rollercoaster of emotion neither of us knew how to deal with.

The realization came to me like a punch to my gut. Even though protecting him had always been my top priority, I had always been able to count on him to do the most sensible thing when the time came for it. I would never admit it to him, but his sensible nature was part of what made us a good team. Now I realized that my brother was compromised, that I couldn't trust his decisions anymore. And it was the scariest thing that had ever happened to me.

I came back to the motel fifteen minutes later, with a couple of cups of coffee and some donuts. Sam was already waiting by the car and he suspiciously eyed the bags I was carrying, readying himself to refuse his breakfast.

"Drink it while it's hot," I ordered, anticipating his protests. "It'll do you good."

Sam glared at me half-heartedly and reached out for his cup. For the time being it was good enough; I'd push some donuts into him later. Then he handed back my cell-phone. I watched him carefully, but his expression wasn't giving anything away.

"How'd it go?" I asked, even though I wasn't entirely sure that I wanted to know.

Sam shrugged and grabbed the handle of the car door.

"Let's go," he said.

I stared at him for a couple of seconds before going around the Impala and slipping into my seat. Then for a terrible moment I realized that during my mission to wipe out all traces of smoke stench from the motel room, I had completely forgotten about the car. What if the leather smelled like smoke too? What if Sam noticed and freaked out?

But Sam remained still by my side, leaning against the window, eyes already set ahead and with a determined frown on his face. The only thing I could do was start the car.

"Here."

My jacket landed on my lap, and I spared Sam a glance. I hadn't even noticed that he was carrying it. Actually, I had absolutely forgotten about it from the moment I had left it next to the window in the room.

"Thanks," he whispered.

I nodded and we took off.

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

**Too short? Too long? I have a question for you: Would you prefer longer chapters or this length is alright? Any other comment you may have, you know where to find me!**

**xx**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello everybody! Thank you all for your patience. Here we go again! The biggest hug for my beta Emrys, who despite her busy schedule manages to find the time to make this story a bit more readable.**

-5-

In the daylight, the sight of what was left of my brother's apartment was disheartening. The façade was blackened and had peeled off. The windows had exploded and there were pieces of glass all over the sidewalk. The door was hanging off of its hinges, but the unbarred doorway was sealed off with police tape. There was a patrol car keeping watch on the place, and one of the officers stepped out of the vehicle as soon as he saw us coming. Sam, mask firmly in place, moved forward to meet him and said his piece without blinking. Or at least without blinking any more than was strictly needed to convince the cop to let us have a look inside, just in case there was something left to save.

A couple of minutes later we were in. Truth be told, I didn't know Sam had become _that_ good.

Inside, the apartment was completely wrecked. The walls were carbonized, the furniture, shattered. The floor had the spongy quality of moist cinder and was a mess of dirty tracks and footprints that spoke volumes about the frantic activity of firemen, cops, and probably appraisers too. The ash muffled our steps, dried out our throats and made our eyes itch. Over our heads, part of the ceiling had collapsed and debris had piled up under the gap. Beams protruded from the ceiling's cracked edges, and cut cables silently swung slowly in the void even though there was no breeze. It was like entering a nightmare realm.

I glanced at Sam in the half-light, but I could only wonder how being back there was affecting him since his expression was set and he wasn't giving anything away. Seemingly unfazed by the destruction around him, he took out the EMF detector and scanned his surroundings with a critical eye. Apparently, the memory of what the apartment had once been to him had been shoved deep down in his mind. Instead of seeing the past, he was putting all his energy into the search for whatever it was that had destroyed it. I respected him for it. More than that, I admired him.

I connected the video camera and set it on night vision to help scan what was left of the small living room. The EMF detector wavered almost immediately, and Sam tensed.

"I'm getting something," he grunted.

"It's just a residual," I whispered back, eyes locked on the little video screen as I carefully walked through the room.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because the camera's getting nothing. There's no supernatural presence, only traces, and that's what the EMF is detecting," I replied evenly.

He didn't argue back.

The last room we walked into was his bedroom, which was in even worse condition than the rest of the apartment. Sam hung back a moment as if he was reluctant to go in. But just when I was about to suggest I'd go in alone, he followed me with movements that were only a little bit more hesitant. As soon as he got in, he glanced toward the ceiling with eyes that were a little bit more haunted. I smiled sadly to myself. It was one way Sammy was different than me; no matter how much it hurt, how scared he was, he always had to _see_, to ask questions, to find answers. To _know_, regardless of what it may take from him, even if it was his life, his sanity.

Me, I probably would've avoided looking at the ceiling at all cost.

But what _I _saw was Sam's bed, practically buried under rubble. What _I _knew was that he had been close to dying in there, and that single thought was making me sick.

"Sam," I called when it didn't seem like he was going to tear his eyes from the collapsed ceiling anytime soon.

He blinked and snapped out of his staring spell to look back at the detector. He was trying to be professional, but the hand holding the device was shaking slightly.

"The signal is stronger in here," he said, clearing his throat.

I approached him and looked over his shoulder to see the detector. He tilted his head and turned around to meet my eyes. I took a few seconds before meeting his gaze, knowing he was expecting me to confirm there was something in the house.

Something that could be killed.

"Another trace," I said, shaking my head and looking away. "The parameters of the signal are too low."

"But…"

"Bring it over here."

Sam frowned and didn't move until I nodded at him.

"C'mon, check this out," I said, insisting that he come closer.

He walked to me and eyed the debris on his bed through the camera screen. The edges of its collapsed fragments glowed in the greenish image. He clenched his teeth and brought the detector closer. The signal intensified.

"What is it?" he breathed.

I was already kneeling next to the bed and studying the debris. Carefully, I ran my fingers over the surface and felt the sandy substance that got stuck on my fingertips before smelling it.

"I'll be damned," I swore under my breath.

"Dean?"

"It's sulfur."

Sam paled visibly.

"Sulfur?" he repeated.

"I think so, yeah."

He hesitantly ran his hand over the pieces of rubble and then sniffed it. He wrinkled his nose and dropped his hand immediately, swallowing furiously.

"You think it…it could be a…"

"A demon."

"But how…_why_?" He was forcing his voice to be steady, but it still sounded raw to me.

"I don't know, Sam. We don't even know if it's a demon. Maybe there're other things that can leave sulfur traces."

"But it's the same thing, right? The same thing that killed Mom?"

"Maybe… Maybe not."

Not for the first time, I realized how little we knew about the thing that had killed our mother 22 years ago. However, Sam didn't seem to have the slightest doubt that the demon was involved with Jessica's death, and that knowledge spurred him to conscientiously resume his search. While my head swirled with the new information and my stomach flip-flopped so hard it felt like I had swallowed an iron ball, Sam was completely focused.

_A demon_

_How was that possible?_

_A demon_

_What did that mean?_

_A demon_

_Did my father know?_

_A demon. A demon. A demon._

_Why? Why _us

I shook my head, maybe to clear my thoughts, probably to banish them completely. After all, that was my MO: deny what I was unable to process, bury it for the time being and hope that in the future I would find a way to either deal with it or at least stop it from exploding inside of me.

Aware that I had spaced out for a while, I came back to my senses, and realized I could no longer hear Sam rummaging around.

"Sam?" I called out.

When he didn't answer, I left his wrecked bedroom and went to the living room.

"Hey," I said, tilting my head in response to the curiosity I was feeling. Sam was kneeling on the floor in front of what once could have been an end table and was staring fixedly at something in his hand. "Found something?"

He turned his head a couple of inches, but didn't face me.

"No," he replied hoarsely. "Nothing."

He stood up and stormed out of the apartment, avoiding my eyes and leaving me astonished. I opened and closed my mouth, wanting to call him back, then thinking better of it and finally getting ready to bolt after him. But first, I eyed the floor next to the end table and spotted what had gotten my brother so shook up. It was a picture, half burnt but still intact enough to clearly show an image of Jess and Sam holding each other and smiling happily at the camera.

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

Sam barely made it to the back alley before throwing up. His breakfast had been meager at best, and when I got to him he had already emptied his stomach and was retching dryly. I took a hesitant step forward but Sam raised a trembling hand to keep me at a distance. Another heave racked his body, and he couldn't stop the pained moan that escaped his lips. I swear it wasn't just sympathy that made me wince, but real, pure pain of my own at seeing him crumpled brokenly on the dirty floor. Seeing my brother hurt was something that had always made me react physically, and when a new violent heave made him whimper I had to bite hard on my lip to choke back a cry.

I stood there, watching Sam helplessly for more than five minutes before the retching subsided and his stomach finally gave him a break. By then, he looked terrible; his face was covered in sweat, and he was as pale as a ghost. He tried to stand up, but his knees buckled and he swayed into the wall with a grunt. I swallowed, tasting copper in my mouth and came closer.

"Hey," I said, placing an arm around his waist.

Sam groaned and tried to free himself from my grasp, but I was pretty sure that if I let go of him he would fall on his face, and I wasn't going to allow that.

"C'mon, dude."

"G-get off m-me."

I pursed my lips and sighed.

"In a sec," I promised, trying to appease him. "Just take it easy now, okay?"

"Dean…"

He sounded as if I was suffocating him, so I caved in and loosened my hold to give him some room to breathe. Still unsteady, he allowed me to keep a hand over his back while he bent forward with his hands on his knees and struggled to catch his breath. The dizzy spell abated after a few seconds, and he straightened up against the wall, tilting his head backward. Only then did I let go of him, rubbing his back as I dropped my hand with a gentleness that surprised me. I was afraid that I needed him to feel I was there more than he actually needed me to be, and that if I didn't get a grip on myself, my own emotions would take over. If that happened, I wouldn't be of any use to Sam at all.

"Sammy."

"I'm fine," he grunted.

His voice was firmer, shaking just a little on the edges. It was proof that he had gotten himself together and wanted me to drop it, but this time I couldn't. So far I had been okay with not forcing him to talk, probably because it scared me as much as it scared him. But damn, his girlfriend had just _died_. That tough Winchester attitude stunt of his seemed wrong on all levels. It wasn't like him. It was more like…

"Sam."

Well, _me_.

"Dean, _don't_!" he snapped, stepping away from the wall. "I said I'm fine."

I definitely recognized what he was doing. I had done it so many times, and I had seen our father doing just the same thing often enough. Years of trying to make Sam one of us was exploding right in my face.

"Man, I know it's hard," I said, following him and struggling with the words. "But if you need to talk…"

"_Talk_? What's there to talk about?" he retorted.

"Sam, you're _not_ fine," I blurted. "Damn, nobody would be after what you've been through!"

"And what do you want me to say? What are _you_ gonna say to me, huh?" he challenged, turning on his heels and facing me with a deadly glare.

Here it was: the anger. And I had brought it on all by myself.

"I don't know…" I said, swallowing heavily.

"Exactly, you don't know _shit_, Dean. Leave.Me.Alone," he hissed, his face only inches away from mine. And then, as an afterthought, he twisted the metaphorical knife deeper. "Hell, if I had wanted to fucking talk, I'd have gone and stayed with Simon."

I knew that he was upset and that he was just trying to provoke me. But he had a point. Staying with me must have seemed like safe ground to him. I wasn't a caring friend who would make him deal and help him through his grief. I was a cold, careless demon hunter who wouldn't push him and would go all business on him instead. After all, since when did we talk? Definitely not during the last four years, that was for sure. And currently, my inability to find the appropriate words was doing nothing other than proving him right.

I refused to let him see how much his words hurt me, although I think my eyes betrayed me, because something changed in his expression before I managed to find my voice.

"It's not too late for that," I murmured. He blinked at me in disbelief, and I thought I saw his chin tremble. "If that's what you need, I'll drive you there myself."

He held my gaze for a few, terrible seconds, wearing that unsettling look that screamed '_You don't get it, right? You don't get anything at all.'_ And I didn't, okay? I.Didn't. And that made me want to scream too.

Finally, Sam bit his lip and looked away.

"We don't have time for this. We have to do more research."

On that note, my brother turned and headed for the car. After a beat, I followed.

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

That night, the nightmares started. Or at least at the time I thought that they had started then. Sam woke up screaming, and I jolted awake, my hand clutching the knife under my pillow. Before I had had time to get my bearings, he had gotten up and locked himself in the bathroom. I sat up on the bed, tossed a look around to make sure there was no danger, and then took a couple of deep breaths to steady my heart rate. Sam used to have nightmares as a kid, but he hadn't woken up screaming from one of them since his early teens.

Then I figured that his having nightmares after what had happened was…well, about the only _normal_ thing that had happened since this whole mess got started.

My brother exited the bathroom twenty minutes later, visibly upset, but more in control of himself. He glanced at me, saw that I was awake, and immediately averted his eyes to rebuild his walls. I didn't need to ask to know that any show of concern from me wouldn't be well received, especially after our earlier fight.

"Sam?"

But I had to try anyway.

"Go back to sleep, Dean," he ordered as he laid down on his side, his back to me.

I gave a bitter chuckle, knowing that neither of us was going to get any more sleep that night.

"Nah, I'm not sleepy," I muttered.

I reached out for the remote and turned the TV on. Sam shifted in the bed to glare at me, but there was no heat in his eyes as he wordlessly surveyed my profile under the bluish glow of the screen. I stared ahead stubbornly, as if watching commercials at 4AM was my most secret dream come true. Finally, he sighed and lay on his back to distract himself with the program too. To an outsider, it would have seemed like we were both absorbed by the television, but in reality we weren't paying any attention. We were just resting in silence as we hid from the sandman.

For a moment, a wave of familiarity enveloped me, and I savored it with nostalgia. When Sam was little and wasn't able to go back to sleep after a bad dream, I used to keep him company during his vigil. He would curl up against my side, and I'd read to him the first thing I had at hand.

I had nothing to read now, and some mindless television chatter replaced my voice. Suddenly I missed my brother's warmth; I missed feeling him relax against me…I missed feeling goddammed useful for a change. Sensing his distress, I eyed him sideways and cursed the abyss that separated us, which was much more insurmountable than the gap that separated our beds.

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

**I'm aware I might be playing with your patience. Don't get nervous! I'd say we're half-way through the story. More angst coming!**

**Love xx**


	6. Chapter 6

**Here we are****, back again! Thanks so much for your reviews on the last installment. And for those of you who do think I'm trying your patience…sorry, only 4 chapters to go, keep tuned!**

**Oh, before I forget, thanks SO much to all of you who reviewed So Far Away. I wanted to send you a big public HUG from here.**

**And of course, my devotion to Emrys. I make her work too hard.**

**On with the story!**

-6-

"You don't have to come."

Pointedly ignoring my brother, I sighed and finished getting ready for Jessica's funeral. There were so many things inherently wrong with his suggestion that I didn't even know how to start answering him back. Because, first, of course I _had_ to go, and second, _of course_ I wasn't going because I had to. And third, was he going to tell me already whether he wanted me there or not?

It had been three days since the fire. Three days we had spent doing research, calling contacts, watching the apartment and alternating fighting with a simple lack of communication between the two of us.

"You're going to hate it."

"Nobody likes funerals, Sam."

"You didn't even know her."

Arms raised questioningly, I rolled my eyes and turned to face him. He bit his lower lip and, looking uncomfortable, finished buttoning his shirt.

"I'm just saying that there're gonna be a lot of people there…"

"What? You worried I'll make a fool out of you? I promise I'll behave _normal_ for a while!" I snapped.

At that, he looked hurt, and I felt bad for allowing his reluctance to annoy me. But the truth was neither of us had been getting enough sleep in the last three days, and we were cranky because of it. I knew that my brother had enough on his plate at the moment, and it was unfair to add my own insecurities to his burden. But he was acting like I was something embarrassing he had to hide from his perfectly normal social circle, and I had had enough of it.

"Look," I said, taking a deep breath. "If you don't want me to go, tell me and let's get this over with."

Sam continued chewing his lower lip as he slipped his new jacket on.

"Otherwise," I tried, forcing a smile. "I'll have to think you're only trying to drive my car."

He scoffed and looked daggers at me and my poor, inappropriate attempt at humor.

"Sam…"

"Do whatever you want, Dean," he said, cutting me off with a huff and storming past me towards the door.

I ran both hands through my hair and exhaled heavily. Then I did what my brother had told me to do… that is, what I wanted to, and went with him.

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

The service was long and emotional. I guess that's how funerals are, but except for a couple of images here and there —which were viciously coming back to me— I barely remembered my mother's funeral. I had also purposely stayed away from cemeteries since my mom's funeral, at least outside of hunts.

Jessica's parents sat in front, eyes fixed onto the closed coffin that held their daughter's remains. Dr. Moore was stoically holding his wife's hand and keeping a collected expression while listening to the pastor's words about Jess. But his eyes were dulled. I knew that kind of look; he didn't understand what had happened. He was still struggling with the whys. Mrs. Moore cried silently the whole time, expression blank, head slightly tilted. I couldn't help wondering if she was on some kind of sedative.

They insisted that Sam sit next to them, because he was family to them. He looked at me, unsure of what to do. It was the first time he looked me in the eye since we had left the hotel. I gave an affirmative shrug and took a seat right behind him as he sat by Jess' mother. Mrs. Moore clasped my brother's knee fiercely with her hand, and my Sammy covered the woman's shaky fingers with his. He was holding his own, but from my position I saw how tense his shoulders were. I wanted to reach out and squeeze the nape of his neck; I wanted to lean forward and sit with my arms crossed on the back of his chair so that all I had to do for him to hear me over the mournful elegy was whisper into his hear.

Sam wouldn't want me to do any of that, though. He was keeping his front up and wouldn't forgive me if my concern jeopardized it. However, when the coffin was lowered into the grave and everybody stood up respectfully, he lost the grip of Mrs. Moore's hand. The woman fell back out of his reach and slipped from her chair. Among the commotion that followed, while dozens of friends and family rushed to help, I could only see Sam's face, drained of color, staring at the faded woman as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Sam-"

"Sam, do you have a ride back to the Moore's?" a man in his early thirties asked, showing up out of the blue. He was some cousin of Jess'. "Or do you need a lift?"

Momentarily dazed, the solicitous relative's approach took Sam by surprise. He reacted to the intruder on instinct alone and shrank back from the guy. Immediately, I acted on instinct too and protectively stepped forward.

"I'll drive him, man, no problem," I informed the stranger.

"Yeah…" Sam said. He had recovered and was wetting his lips. "It's okay, Jason, thanks…This- this is my brother Dean."

"Oh, nice to meet you," Jason said, and held out his hand with a friendly smile.

Either we were so skilled that even our instinctive reactions were too subtle to notice, or normal people were just plain dumb.

"Nice to meet you, too."

"See you there then. You know the way, right?"

I glanced at Sam, who nodded weakly.

"Yes, we'll be fine. Thank you," I replied with forced politeness.

Hint taken or not, Jason agreed to leave after tossing a last compassionate look at my brother. I wished that those people could understand how much Sam hated being looked at like that, and would stop doing it already.

As soon as we were alone, I searched my brother's gaze.

"How are you holding up?" I asked.

"I'm alright," he said. It was a blatant lie.

"We don't have to do this, Sammy. We can go back to the motel now. They'll understand."

"I can't," he said, shaking his head no. "I owe it to them."

"What do you mean you _owe_ them?"

"Let's just go," Sam said, eluding my question. "Unless _you_ prefer to go back…I can go with Jason."

"I'm fine," I assured him with a sigh. "Let's go."

By the time we got to the Moore's, Sam was composed enough to face another collective round of grieving, which was how I was starting to see the whole funeral thing. Sam had been right; I felt as out of place as a fish out of water, and the sensation was just as suffocating. I gave my brother some space to interact with Jessica's friends and family through the afternoon, hoping that the ritual would offer him some relief. Give him a sense of belonging, of closure, whatever the hell that meant.

He wouldn't know it, but I had always found my own relief in watching him. It was obvious that my mother's funeral had given my family anything but closure. And I had always known I belonged only with Sam. So, of course, I kept an eye on him from afar, never letting him out of my sight, attentive to his every move just like I had grown used to doing since I was four.

"He looks different, you know? Reminds me of his first years at Stanford."

I jumped when I felt a cup of punch pressed against my hand and turned to find Simon next to me, wearing a sad smile. I unconsciously relaxed; at least he was a familiar face, sort of. That, and the fact he had always been nice to me. It was pathetic, and selfish, but I so needed someone being nice to me.

"What do you mean?" I asked, accepting the drink and tilting it slightly toward him as a gesture of gratitude.

"We were roommates during our freshman year," he explained. "Hit it off right away. He was a nice guy, very friendly, but somehow it was as if he wasn't ever completely there. I don't know how to explain it. He had this way around people…he blended in but he kept everybody at a distance. He never really let anyone in."

I nodded in understanding. I could only imagine how hard had it been for Sam to reconcile his wish to fit in with his engraved distrust of others. He must have felt scared, lonely. Even if it had been his decision to leave, the way that his leaving had developed had been out of his control since the moment our father had shut the door on him. It could have been different. He shouldn't have had to face college alone; with just a little less anger, we could have been there to support him.

"He opened up a bit with time," Simon continued. "Especially after meeting Jess." He chuckled sadly, and I tore my eyes from Sam to give him a sympathetic smile. He acknowledged it with a wrinkle of his nose and sighed deeply.

"How'd they meet?" I asked, somewhat curious. I had barely known anything about my brother's life during those years.

Simon's smile widened as he became reminiscent.

"We were in this bar. It was damn hard to get your brother's nose out of his books, let me tell you," he said. I scoffed as Simon continued. "Anyway, he suddenly caught sight of this girl next to the pool table, and his expression changed. Zach and I started making fun of him, because, dude, he was seriously transfixed. Shiny eyes, faraway look and all—" Simon shook his head, affection clear in his voice.

I looked back at Sam. My chest had constricted.

"So we went to play pool with her and her friends," he said, and laughed. "Man, she kicked our ass in a heartbeat. Only Sam was able to stand up to her."

"He's good," I said, forcing my voice to cooperate.

"Yeah, well, he preserved our honor. When it became obvious we weren't needed there, though, we left them to their…_game._"

"Knowing Sam, playing pool was all they did."

"You bet. He was beating around the bush for weeks, until _she_ got tired of waiting and asked _him_ out."

I smiled.

"Sounds like she was a cool girl."

"She was very cool," Simon said, a little bit sadly. He sighed and downed his drink. "I just hate seeing him like this."

"Yeah, me too," I sighed.

I wasn't sure why I was baring my soul to a practical stranger, so when he frowned at me I knew I had had it coming.

"Then what are you doing here talking to me?"

"Come again?" I tensed, sick of being questioned about my motives over and over again.

"Dean, he's not gonna let any of us to get to him, no matter how hard we try. But why aren't _you_ with him?"

I shifted uncomfortably.

"Well," I began, "For starters, I'm not even sure that he wants me _here _at all," I said.

He gave me an odd look.

"You kidding?"

His tone was starting to rile me. Simon noticed and reduced his incredulity.

"You really haven't noticed it then?" he asked with a hint of disbelief.

"Noticed what?"

"The way he checks on where you are every minute or two?"

I arched an eyebrow. Maybe I had noticed Sam looking in my direction every now and then. But I hadn't given it any importance. We were trained to keep the other within sight and communicate via eye-contact during hunts. I was sure it was nothing but a reflex, so Simon's point was…?

"His face whenever he can't find you within the first couple of seconds?" Simon shook his head to stress his words. "Look, man, I know you two have issues," he said, but when I glared at him he quickly amended what he was about to say next. "And those are definitely none of my business. But I do know something. And it's that Sam barely talks bout his family. Ever. But whenever he does, after a couple of beers or when he let his guard down and slips a comment here or there…it's always about you. And I may not know you, but it sounds to me like you're the kind of person he would want to have with him right now."

It wasn't very often that someone left me speechless, or that I made them aware of their success. But it wasn't a contest. Simon had made it clear he was on Sam's side and that put him on my side too.

"The problem is I don't know how to help him, Simon," I confessed, forcing a smile to take the edge off of the damn despair that tainted my voice.

He just patted my arm in a clear gesture of, "_Then go find out._" That's how I was prompted to leave the safety of my corner and walk up to my brother.

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

Sam had momentarily sought refuge on a couch at the end of the room, away from the family's friends who had been cuddling him for the last half an hour. Despite the fact he'd spent his life wanting to be normal, it turned out that in grieving he was fully Winchester, and I could tell none of this was helping him. Actually, all of the attention was having the opposite effect, and he was becoming overwhelmed.

I decided that I didn't care what he thought he owed to the Moore's or what he felt was the right thing to do anymore. We were going. And from then on we would be dealing —or not dealing— with loss in _our_ way.

He saw me coming when I was about seven feet away from him, and he flashed me a weak smile. It was past 4 PM, and we had been there for hours. He had to be worn-out.

"Hey," I said and crouched in front of him.

"Hey," he replied wearily. "You were right."

"About what?"

"You behaved normal and all—"

He tried to smile again, but it seemed more like a grimace. I decided to let him off the hook.

"Well, a man has his limits," I said, and cocked my head. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah, I think so," Sam said, swallowing heavily.

"Wanna finish your drink first?" I asked and nodded to the cup he was holding.

"My…" he blinked at the drink and frowned before leaving it on a corner table. "No. I- I don't even know how I ended up with it," he said, digging the heel of his hands into his eyes and blowing out a breath. "God…Dean."

"Yeah?"

"Just take me out of here."

I always found it hard to breathe when he sounded like that. Puppy-eyes I could deal with; they usually subjugated my will but didn't make my heart want to explode. After all I knew that sometimes he purposefully pulled them just to make me do what he wanted. But Sam would never sound broken on purpose. As a matter of fact, he would fight with all his might to hide his pain. So if he had failed to conceal distress, it had been only because that distress was too overpowering.

I held out my hand to help him up, and he took it without a second thought.

"You got it."

I walked my brother outside. I think I saw Simon smiling goodbye to us out of the corner of my eye, but I didn't turn around to confirm it.

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

**I know I know****, you'll think, not so much has happened here…but the following scene was kind of intense (you think I'd give the boys a break?) and I preferred to cut it here and save it for chapter 7, which will be up ASAP!!**

**Any comments?**

**xx**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey there! Sorry for taking so long to update!**** Real life insists to get in the way. Sooo, this chapter's driven me crazy. I made the terrible mistake of announcing there would be an intense scene, and the second I did that I somehow raised everyone's expectations and as a result I got all nervous and started rewriting the installment over and over again, all the time thinking Damn..it's not really THAT intense…and well, I hope you'll like the result. The scene I was talking about it's not at the beginning anymore. Enjoy!!**

**Oh, and really, THANKS to all of you who are still reading. Last chapter was the most reviewed of the story! I was so happy! And thanks to Em: this story belongs to her too.**

-7-

We left the Moore's residence in the rearview mirror, and the echoes of mourning were suffocated by the rumble of the car. Sam had taken the passenger's seat obediently and sat with his eyes closed and his head tilted back. I glanced at him a couple of times as I drove and thought about Simon's words. I still found it hard to believe that Sam wanted my presence for more than just driving him around or reminding him to eat and sleep when he was too wired to remember by himself. But Simon had sounded so sure that I was beginning to doubt myself.

And now, after wishing for so long that my little brother would give me a sign that he needed me, I found myself fearing that it was true. It was bad enough to watch him from the sidelines suffering helplessly, but it was even worse to know that what I might do or say could actually make a difference. That realization opened up a whole new realm of chances for me to screw up.

"You alright there, man?" I asked softly, after a while of silent driving.

Sam gave a light nod, breathed in, and after a beat blinked open a pair of lifeless eyes to watch the fleeting scenery pass.

"You want me to put on some music?"

A weak shake of the head was all the answer he gave me, and I swallowed in defeat and focused on the road ahead.

"You should have heard them, Dean," he said out of the blue.

I tossed him an inquisitive look. His voice was distant, almost as if he was talking to himself, and his eyes were downcast.

"Who?"

"All of them," Sam said, shrugging. "They were so kind to me, doing their best to show me their support, to let me know I was one of them. Even Abby…Jess' mother, she sat with me for a while and tried to comfort me. Comfort _me_, Dean. Can you believe it?"

"Well," I said, measuring my words, "she was your girlfriend, Sam. You've lost her too."

My brother's jaw twitched and, clearly discarding the idea, he shook his head. I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from insisting. Arguing wouldn't get us anywhere. Not right now.

"Then her father came to me and he…" Sam paused and licked his lips. "He hugged me," he then said sadly. "And after that he looked me in the eye and asked me…he a-asked me…"

I looked at him sideways.

"What did he ask you?"

My brother drew in a shaky breath.

"He asked me how the fire started," he whispered.

I grimaced sympathetically. But Sam wasn't looking at me. I think that by then, he wasn't looking at anything at all.

"He asked me how the fire started, and I lied to his face." He gave a hollow chuckle. "I lied to a devastated man who accepted me into his house the very day he buried his little girl."

"You were protecting him."

"I wasn't protecting him," he said emptily. "I was protecting myself."

Struggling for something to say, I opened my mouth, but Sam wasn't expecting an answer. I knew I had lost him for the time being when he closed his eyes and turned his head toward the window again.

Nightmares came back that night. You might think I would be used to them by then, but I would never get used to seeing my brother jolting awake with a gasp or seeing the tears he lost control over escaping his closed eyelids while he slept. Knowing that he wouldn't answer my questions, I had stopped asking him about the dreams. But we also had quit pretending they didn't keep both of us awake. Most nights neither of us said anything; we just laid quietly in the dark as we waited for daylight to come.

Some other times though, Sam did talk. Not about the dreams, of course. Not about Jessica, or Stanford, or even Dad. He talked about silly things, inconsequential things. On the night after the funeral, he suddenly started rambling in a low, faraway voice, about some stupid memory of a hunt in Virginia that had taken place when he was 13 and I was 17. I have no idea what brought it back, but I listened to him. Sam might not believe it, but I _always_ listened when he talked.

And I know some people might think it was wrong, even selfish of him to assume I was awake just because he was. But for me, it felt right that he took it for granted that my sleep patterns mimicked his own. It meant that, at least during the night, we had found a way to be on the same page.

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

Sam and I spent the following day working in the library. Well, he worked. I escorted him. Apparently, Jessica's funeral had triggered some kind of frantic urge for answers in him that was even more pressing than it had been before. Maybe he felt he had failed the Moores as well as his girlfriend's memory by being a Winchester in mourning. Watching him consulting all kinds of books at once, I could only wonder what exactly was going on inside his head.

If only he knew how much he reminded me of our father in those moments. But of course, I couldn't tell him that. He had already snapped at me in the morning when I had suggested we go for breakfast before plunging ourselves into research mode. He had snapped at the librarian for giving him a weird look when he asked about books on demonology. And when we casually met with Zach and Christine, who had approached to apologize for not having been able to make it to the funeral, I saw in his eyes that it was all he could do not to snap at them too.

The moment they disappeared, Sam took his books without anything more than a grunt and moved to a private cubicle, making it absolutely clear that he didn't appreciate the interruptions. Then he snapped at me again when I tried to get him to eat something. To him stopping for any reason meant that we would have to leave the hunt for a while and _Damn it, Dean. This is important. You wanna eat, just go and eat_.

It was then that I realized Sam hadn't had a good day, and I accepted my defeat. Knowing him as I do, I'd say he was painfully aware that the previous day he had been close to breaking and, on top of that, I had been there to witness it. Now, all he had in mind was to compensate those wasted hours of weakness and trade his health and sanity for something productive, such as answers and revenge. Anybody that stood in his way was going to pay the consequences, so all I could do was to back off graciously and let him have it his way. But nothing could stop me from keeping an eye on him, just in case. After all, if that now-hot now-cold emotional rollercoaster of his was making my head spin, I could only imagine what it was doing to him.

He deflated as the hours went by. His determination was just as firm, but everybody has limits and Sam was working himself to exertion. After a couple of hours more, I took my chances and braced myself to go and convince him to leave. Surprisingly, he acceded. But I wasn't fooled. I sensed the frustration that emanated from him as clearly as a physical punch, and I knew it would only be a matter of time before he snapped again. Only when Sam slumped boneless in the passenger seat without so much of a word and I started the car did I dare let out a weary, relieved breath.

Another day had passed. And we had made it through.

Sam asked me to stop by the cemetery before going back to the motel. I complied, because I understood that the crowded service of the previous day hadn't given him a chance to have a moment with Jess alone. Once there, I waited silently a few feet from him as he stood before the grave.

"You think we should make sure?" he asked all of a sudden.

His voice was flat, and I almost shuddered at the sound.

"What do you mean?"

"You know, salt and burn her…" he said and swallowed. "Or maybe just salt her, because…"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Don't give me that look!" he said, huffing. "It would be the professional thing to do."

I shook my head in disbelief. For Christ's sake, really, what was going on inside his head? Whatever it was, it had to stop.

"Fuck that."

"Pardon me?"

"Stop it, Sam."

"No, you stop it Dean!" he exclaimed, glaring at me.

"Stop what?"

"Stop looking at me like…as if I was going to _break_ at any moment! I can't fucking stand it! For the last time, Dean, I'M FINE!" he yelled.

It was funny that he was saying this while he was shaking like a leaf. Fucking hysterical.

Good old anger had replaced his weariness. It wasn't until later that I realized that he was channeling all of that fury against me because he didn't know where else to put it. So instead of helping him through the worst of it, I only aggravated the situation by responding to his anger with some of my own.

"You know what I can't stand, Sammy?" I snarled.

I knew I should stop. I knew the days were taking a toll on us, especially on him, and that I had to be strong, weather the storm and just take him back to the room. But I couldn't help it. He had caught me unprepared, in the open, when I had thought we were finally safe. When I was most vulnerable. And equally dangerous.

"I can't stand you _lying_ to me! Salt and burn her, Sam? Are you out of your mind? You.Are.Not._Fine_!" I growled. "You know that. I know that. Now, you may not want to talk about it, and I may not like it, but I'll have to respect it, because it's your call. But I'm not taking any of this crap anymore. You don't get to look me in the eye and lie to my face, because let me tell you, little brother, I deserve better than that and don't you believe for a second that you're fooling me."

Sam just stared at me, dumbfounded, his throat working convulsively.

"I'm fine," he repeated.

And that was just too much.

"Oh, you are?" I asked, daring him.

Without adding a word I turned around and stalked to the car. He didn't follow me, either because he was frozen by my outburst or because he was challenging me, the thought of which was unnerving as hell. I opened the truck, grabbed a shovel and stormed back to the grave. He shrank when he saw me coming, and I felt a rush of guilt coupled with victory. I held the shovel out for him and snarled.

"Here, then. You can start digging."

_What are you doing, Dean_

Sam stared at the shovel as if it was on fire, then back at me with a disbelieving look.

_What are you doing to him?_

"Take it!"

He flinched and his chin trembled, but I was too out of it to notice. After a while, he set his shoulders and reached out shakily, but his breath hitched, his body betrayed him, and he simply couldn't make it. He stepped back, almost falling to the ground. His face was layered in sweat, and his eyes were shiny. For a second I thought he was going to be sick, but he was just fighting tears as he backed away from me.

_Jesus Christ._

Seeing him recoiling finally got through to me. I withdrew the shovel brusquely, as if I had just snapped out of a trance, and only then remembered how to breathe. I closed my eyes and fell hard on my knees, waiting for the world to right itself. I wasn't sure how it had happened. How could I have ended up torturing my brother in front of his girlfriend's grave a day after she had been buried?

"Go back to the car, Sam," I told him. _Begged _him. I hated myself so much at that moment that I felt like I deserved to be left alone in the dark forever.

"Dean—" He sounded distant, scared.

"Go back to the car," I repeated, roughly. "I'll be there in a minute."

I couldn't look at him, so I just waited until I heard him stumble his way to the Impala. And then the weight in my chest overflowed, and I started sobbing my heart out in a way I hadn't done in years.

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

I went back to the car an hour later, aching in every possible way. Because, let's face it, Sam had had a point and as soon as I was able to pull it together, I had dug up the grave of the woman he loved, salted and then punished myself by burning her all over again.

I slipped behind the wheel of the car after throwing the shovel inside the truck. I gave myself a moment to regain my composure while I sat next to the shivering form of my brother who was curled up against his door staring fixedly through the window. Even though he didn't look at me, I knew Sam was aware of what I had done. Just as he could see the trace of tears across the dirt that covered my face.

"Sam, I-"

I swallowed, unable to find the right words. _I'm sorry_ didn't even begin to cover it, but I still felt the unmanageable need to scream it at the top of my lungs over and over again.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said softly.

It was an answer to my previous question and the closest I was going to get to an opening. But really, did I deserve anything better?

"Alright," I breathed, starting the car. "Alright."

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

By the time we were back in the room, my hand was on fire. Probably, digging up a grave that evening hadn't been the best idea. I knew I had to change the dressing, but I had been putting it off until now.

In the privacy of the bathroom I blew out a weary breath and slumped over the closed lid of the toilet as I fumbled for the first-aid kit. Clenching my teeth, I started peeling off the bandages. I was clumsy with my left-hand and pain didn't sit well with little food, lack of sleep and stress. I knew I was taking too long when Sam appeared in the doorway.

"You okay?"

"Huh?"

He nodded toward my half-undressed hand as he came closer and kneeled before me.

"Let me do it."

"I can do it, Sam," I said, moving my hand away.

He chewed his lower lip, but kept his eyes low and partially obscured under honey brown bangs.

"I know, but it'll be easier if I help you."

"Don't."

"Dean, please," he whispered, looking me directly in the eye. "Let me help you."

Sighing inwardly, I let him take my hand in his, knowing that by doing so, I was forgiving him for whatever he thought _he_ needed to apologize for.

If irony killed, I would have been struck dead.

He sat beside me on the edge of the tub, placed my hand on his knee and resumed taking off the bandages with extreme gentleness. I almost forgot about the pain. Maybe it just wasn't that bad now that Sam was there to take care of it. Sitting there with our knees touching and our eyes fixed on our practically entangled hands was the closest we had been in a very long time.

"You think that's how he felt?" he asked abruptly.

"Who?"

We were both whispering, God knew why. He finished undressing my hand and reached out for some burn cream.

"Dad," he explained, ruefully.

I gulped.

"I don't know, Sam."

"I… I need to find Dad, Dean."

Well, I needed Dad too. Sam's gruff words hurt, but I didn't know why.

"I know. We'll find him, alright?" I promised.

"Yeah."

Sam's hand found the cream and uncapped it. Then he grabbed my wrist with one hand and started to apply the ointment with the other. I flinched slightly and automatically tried to pull my hand away, but he held my wrist firmly. His hand was warm and when he started to rub the inner side of my arm soothingly with his thumb as he applied the cream, I breathed in and leaned back against the tiled wall, unconsciously relaxing a notch.

"Does it hurt?" Sam questioned hoarsely.

I cocked my head to look him in the eye, because his tone sounded too crushed for my taste. He kept his eyes stubbornly low.

"It's not too bad now," I answered honestly.

He finished with the cream and took a shaky breath before reaching out for fresh bandages. His left hand remained on my wrist and gave it a tender squeeze.

"I'm sorry you got hurt," he muttered as he started redressing my hand.

I curled my fingers over the back of his hand to instinctively envelope it in mine. He slowed down his movements, relishing my touch as if he needed it as much as I did. I felt a lump building inside my throat and blamed the burn on the tears that threatened to pool in my eyes.

"It's okay… It wasn't your fault," I said, fighting the ache in my throat.

I wanted to be reassuring, but instead I had apparently said the wrong thing because his breath caught, and his hand quivered in mine.

"It's not okay," he refuted. "You shouldn't have come back inside, Dean…you could have gotten yourself killed."

"And what did you want me to do, Sam? Wait outside and let you die?"

His silence made me shudder.

"Sam?" I insisted, torn between anger, fear, and plain despair.

"I'm finished."

I blinked, not understanding until I felt a soft tug on my hand. The new bandages were securely wrapped around it, and his hands reluctantly let go of mine. My stomach dropped, and I sat frozen between the need to pull him against me and the need to lock my emotions away in a place where they didn't make my heart shatter. As usual, I got stuck somewhere in the middle, holding onto my brother's hand in a sort of Winchester way of hugging that wasn't enough for either of us.

I hoped that he understood. And when, still not looking at me, he squeezed my fingers back for a few seconds, I wanted to believe that somehow he did.

"Is that what you wanted?" I asked, inwardly cursing as my voice trembled. "You wish you died in there?"

His eyes pleading, he swallowed heavily and flashed me a brief look. I didn't need him to say anything to know what he was thinking, what he was feeling. His eyes did the talking and what they said was, _Please, Dean. I can't do this right now_. I let it go, because really, he didn't need to answer, and if I had to be honest with myself, I didn't want him to.

"Go to sleep, Sammy," I whispered, releasing his hand.

He took a hesitant breath and stood; he seemed unsure of what to do with his hands and his regained verticality. He nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and I could feel his eyes on me.

"Good night," he said weakly, almost questioningly.

He needed me to tell him we were alright.

"Good night, Sam"

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

**That was it… (nervously chewing my nails) What did you think??**

**Love xx**


	8. Chapter 8

**Well well well, here we go again. Sorry for the waiting (both for the chapter and ****the replies to your wonderful reviews). Yeah, I know I say it every time…But hey, I'm really sorry **_**every time**_

**Thanks for staying with me in this! And to Em, who revised the chapter even though she was feeling awful… Thanks, babe. I don't know what I would do without you.**

**We're getting close to the end…Enjoy the chapter!**

-8-

"What are you doing?" Sam's voice startled me when he got back into the room, and I restrained myself from snapping the laptop closed. After all I wasn't doing anything wrong.

It was the fifth day after Jess's death. After the events of the previous night, we had had a quiet morning. Sam had taken off after lunch, claiming that he wanted to check out a bookshop. I was pretty sure that he really just wanted some alone time. Besides, I had the feeling that I made him nervous during research. It was as if my presence put more pressure on him to find something before I got tired of waiting or whatever. This wasn't anything new. Sam had always preferred plunging into his books alone without anyone's impatience burdening his performance.

"I'm just checking out some stuff," I said and shrugged.

"About what?"

"Huh…Blackwater Ridge."

Sam squinted at me.

"Wasn't that…That's where Dad's coordinates sent us, right?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

Sam pursed his lips and walked away from me. Then he went into the bathroom and slammed the door closed. I sighed and kneaded my temples, already feeling the impending headache looming. Unfortunately our search for Jessica's killer was coming up empty, and at the same time our father's trail was growing colder. Neither of us wanted to acknowledge either reality, but as a result we were edgy all the time.

Although I didn't want to rush things for Sam, I was becoming restless. I was becoming all too aware that there was nothing to find in Palo Alto, and that too much would be lost if our father's trail disappeared altogether. When I was left alone, I wasn't able to keep myself from doing preliminary research on the area indicated by the coordinates he left for me in his journal. And it wasn't like I was planning to take off for the place overnight. Honestly, I was only browsing the net.

However, the search had lost its appeal the moment I knew it had hurt Sam. If he had felt pressured before, now he had to believe the whole issue was exhausting my patience, and it wasn't like that.

I did want to move on, but I understood perfectly that I had to wait for my brother. No one was going anywhere until he was ready, and he needed to know that. I was going to make sure that he knew it, just as soon as he came out of the bathroom.

I turned off the laptop and let myself drop onto the bed with a tired groan. Those days I felt the pull of sleep whenever I allowed myself to slow down. As a result I tried to be in motion all the time, but it was becoming harder with every passing day we were stuck in one place.

I tried to focus on the noises coming from the bathroom. It was something automatic for me to keep my senses on Sam at any time, especially when he was upset. However, the bathroom was silent and before I realized it I had dozed off. When I woke up, a few hours had passed. I sat up on the bed, still in a daze, and shook my head to blink away the remaining drowsiness. The sun was slowly setting behind the curtains, and I realized I had slept away the whole afternoon without being interrupted once.

"Sam?"

He didn't answer, and a worried frown made its way onto my face even before I had the chance to start consciously worrying over the apparent —but still unconfirmed— absence of my brother. It was something I didn't give too much thought to. It was nothing new that the slightest hint of Sam being in some kind of danger or distress elicited a physical response in me, and it was instinctive rather than rational.

"Sam!" I called again.

I stood up, glanced towards the open door of the bathroom, and then tossed a look around the room only to find it empty. I had a bad feeling and as much as I tried to convince myself that there was no reason to believe something was wrong, an increasing sense of trepidation was beginning to build deep inside my gut.

With an enormous effort, I took a deep breath to push the anxiety down. Sam had probably gone out for a walk, maybe to grab some food. It was a perfectly sensible thing to do. The only reason I was losing it was because we had been living practically attached by the hip during the last few days, and I had grown accustomed to keeping him in sight 24/7.

Hell, it had been hard enough to let him head out to the bookshop earlier, and only a great deal of self-control had kept me from following him at a distance.

Also, the fact that the last time I had seen him he was slamming the bathroom door closed, looking hurt and angry after suffering what had certainly been a betrayal from me wasn't exactly easing my mind. I reached for my cell, and then remembered that Sam had lost his in the fire. So not only was Sam out of the room and out of my sight, but he was also out of my reach.

Two hours later, the situation hadn't changed, and I was starting to go crazy inside those walls. I went out to look for my brother, but he wasn't anywhere near the hotel, or the diner where we had been going for our meals, or the supermarket… Anywhere. Still, there wasn't a real reason to worry. After all, we were in Sam's town, not in some unknown place where he might have gotten lost. But it was also true that Sam was not himself, and while any other time I'd have been more than glad to leave him a bit of space to unwind without my supervision, this time I just wanted him back. And I wanted him back _now_.

I thought about calling Simon when I returned to the hotel. At that point, I wasn't above admitting to myself he might know better than me where Stanford-Sam could have gone. I didn't even care about admitting to him I needed his help, as long as we found Sam and he was okay.

_God, let him be okay_

But I didn't have Simon's number. What if I called information? What had been the guy's surname? I was fumbling for my cell again when my eyes wandered over the desk, and my finger froze over the sending call button. With my heart racing, I dropped the phone on the bed and walked towards the desk. It was almost as if a part of me was convinced that by taking a closer look at the sight before me, it would suddenly change, and my father's journal would reappear next to the laptop. Next to the laptop where I knew I had left it.

Breathing forcefully around the lump in my throat, I ran to the Impala. My hands shook as I opened the truck, and I nervously eyed its contents. I quickly noticed what was missing.

And I instantly knew where my brother had gone.

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

All my instincts screamed at me to barrel into my brother's apartment with my guns blazing. It was all I could do to subdue the blood call rushing through my veins and behave like the trained soldier I was.

That fucker.

As soon as I went in I felt the heavy scent of candles in the air and caught the flickering reflection of flames on the burnt walls. I swallowed the sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach and cautiously advanced with holy water in one hand and a gun in the other. The place was eerily silent, and my steps echoed in a way that was making _me_, the invincible Dean Winchester, shiver.

I went into the bedroom, and my breath immediately caught in my throat. The debris had been cleared away, the whole place had been swept, and there was a pattern drawn with chalk on the charred boards of the floor. On each corner of the pattern there were candles, and in the middle of it there was a bowl containing herbs and…blood.

Sammy's blood.

"It didn't work."

Sam's hollow voice made me jump out of my skin. I turned around to find him standing in a corner, half in shadows against the wall. The candle lights played tricks over his face, and made his eyes shine dully. My heart skipped a beat, and my legs went weak in the knees at the sight of him.

"Sam," I rasped.

He didn't acknowledge my presence but kept on rambling. All the while, his eyes remained fixed on our father's journal which was placed next to the candle-lit pattern adorning the floor.

"I don't understand. I'm sure I did it right."

I wanted to scream. Right there, I wanted to yell so that I could break the suffocating silence. And I wanted to hit him. Badly. I wanted to grab my brother and beat the sense back into his skull with my own fists, because fear and anger like I had never known was threatening to swallow me whole.

I wanted to cry. God, I was going to cry.

"You, son of a bitch," I growled.

Sam didn't even blink. He kept his arms at his sides, and my eyes found the cuts on his forearms. Rage engulfed me once more. I clenched my jaw and let the dark emotion wash over me. I felt that if I let go of a single bit of it, I would break into sobs or retches. Probably both.

"I followed all the instructions. I know I read the summoning incantation correctly, but it didn't work. Why?"

He looked up at me then. The little prick looked up at me as if he was asking me about something insignificant, something like the different phases of the moon or the connection between the clouds and the rain. The problem was that I couldn't bring myself to give a damn about why the fucking ritual hadn't worked, because the idea of what could have happened if it _had_ worked was too overwhelming.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" I barked.

If it had worked, my brother would have been taking on a demon on his own. And I would have been the one to find him burning on the ceiling when he lost the fight.

"Maybe I should have been more accurate with the drawing," Sam mused. "I should try again—"

Before I realized what I was doing, I had slammed Sam against the wall.

"You wanna die?" I demanded. "Is that it?"

Momentarily startled, he met my eyes and then became oddly defiant.

"What do you care?" he hissed.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, breathlessly.

I pressed him harder against the wall, and he winced almost imperceptibly. I was well aware that I was restraining him by the arms right where his cuts were but, God help me, that just made me press down on him harder. When he winced again a sick feeling of justice overtook me. Because if he was so damned willing to hurt himself, to hurt _me_, it was only fair that, as his big brother, I granted his wish.

"Get off me."

"I said, What.Is.That.Supposed.To.Mean?"

"And I said get the fuck off me!"

Sam pushed me hard, and I stumbled backwards a couple of steps, knocking a candle out of position in the process.

"No!" Sam exclaimed.

Seeing his expression twist when the pattern was disrupted was the last straw. I lost it and with a frustrated growl took my anger out on the room. I trampled the candles, crashed the bowl against the floor, and wiped at the chalk in a fit of rage. It didn't take more than a couple of minutes, but by the end of it I was panting and shaking like I would have in the aftermath of a hunt. The image of the havoc I had just created over the previous havoc from the fire was grotesque, and I was feeling nauseous again.

Sam remained frozen to the spot, staring. When I finally raised my eyes and met his gaze, the kid was stunned. Shock was the first emotion I was able to register in his eyes, just before it was replaced by betrayal and anger. That's when Sam stormed out of the apartment without a word.

But I was hot on his heels.

"SAM!"

I cringed at the sound of my own voice, because it was suddenly too similar to the one my father used when he was shouting out orders. And if I hadn't been blinded by my rage, I would have known better than to use that tone on Sam.

"Why did you do that?" he asked, without stopping his heated stroll or looking at me.

I can't stand it when he doesn't look at me. I'd rather be shot with rock salt. Repeatedly.

"_Why?_" I asked, laughing bitterly and quickening my pace so that I could catch up with him. "What the fuck was _that_, Sammy?"

"It's Sam!"

"No, it's not!" I yelled at him. "'Not 'til you stop pulling stupid stunts like this. Not 'til I can let you out of my sight for more that five minutes without having to rush in and save your ass. Until you stop acting brainless and grow the fuck up, it's not _Sam_!"

He stopped dead in his tracks and turned around with a look of pure and unadulterated hatred on his face. That look stole my breath away. But unfortunately for the both of us, I was running on pure adrenaline. In such a state I was perfectly able to function without oxygen for quite some time.

"Screw you! I've been out of your sight for four years, and I've been just fine!"

"Yeah, I can see that!"

Apparently, adrenaline not only helped me function without oxygen, but it also made me say things I knew I'd regret as soon as they slipped out of my mouth. Sam's eyes shone dangerously, and I could feel the sharp blades of the daggers he looked at me. There was no other warning before I was on my back with a throbbing jaw and a nagging, scared voice inside my head screaming _You deserved it_, and _Stop it_, and _You're gonna lose him_.

"Fuck you, Dean. FUCK YOU!" he yelled, glowering. "I don't need your help! I'll find the demon myself!"

"It's not here, Sam!"

"You keep saying that, but the truth is you're just too eager to hit the road, aren't you? To follow Dad's coordinates like his damn _dog_! So, why don't you just leave, Dean?"

"You're really asking me why?" I questioned incredulously.

"I never asked you to stay! Hell, I didn't even say that I wanted you to! So head out to Blackwater Ridge or wherever the fuck you want. I don't want to know where you go. I don't care! Don't you get it? Just get out of my life already. You should have stayed away! Get in your damn car and leave me the fuck alone, this time for good!"

I stood slowly, my nostrils flaring. It wasn't only my abused jaw that was throbbing now, because my entire head was joining in as well. Too wired to relent, we just stared at each other for a few seconds. At the same time, we were both too hurt to throw the next punch, so the fight was over. At least the fight in me was. Because Sammy had finally uttered the words I dreaded the most. He had confirmed my most terrible fears. He didn't need me. He didn't want me there. And he meant forever.

"Is that what you really want?" I managed to ask, my voice suddenly rough.

Sam's chin quivered, only for a second, before he set his jaw and gave the slightest of nods. I felt as if someone was choking me, squeezing my throat until my lungs burned. The frantic beating of my heart joined the silent, agonizing orchestra in my head, but my mind was blank, empty. I think I nodded back and averted my eyes.

"Fine," I blurted.

I turned my back on him and absently made note of the Impala parked in front of the building. Funny, I thought, I didn't remember her being there. She must have been there during our fight along with the other cars, buildings, maybe pedestrians and even the casual onlookers neither of us had bothered to notice. The whole world had become a blurred image while I fought with Sam. While I lost Sam. Somehow, I had the feeling it would never be completely focused again.

I walked to the car in a daze, trusting its familiar silhouette to be my beacon, and I had to climb into the leather interior before I was able to draw in a single breath. My hand found the key and started the car without my mind playing any part in the motions. Before taking off, though, I looked at Sam one last time.

He was standing right where I had left him, fists clenched at his sides, eyes bright and an unreadable expression on his face that made my stomach curl.

Then, determined to leave Stanford in the rearview mirror as fast as I could, I hit the gas.

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

I don't know how long I drove like that, always looking ahead, never back. The car swallowed mile after mile, obediently responding to my every request, but I couldn't seem to derive any comfort from the relaxing image of the road stretching out in front of me or from the familiar purr of the engine. The image of Sam standing by the road and the memory of the look on his face when I started the car were still chasing me, but for good or for bad, I couldn't tell. My brain was still in a blessed state of blankness, my senses were numb. I might have kept driving forever if the piercing horn of another car hadn't startled me into awareness when I missed a stop sign. The Impala swerved, but I managed to regain control and pull it safely over the shoulder of the road.

Then I climbed out of the car, fell to my knees, and threw up.

When I was able to find my way back to the driver's seat, the dry heaves had started to uncomfortably resemble sobbing, and I was shaking all over. I crossed my arms over the wheel and leaned against them to try to normalize my breath. My efforts were only rewarded with a pitiful whimper I couldn't believe had come from me. The words that Sam and I had thrown back and forth that day came back to me in a flood, their harshness and cruelty and terrible unfairness finally catching up with me.

How could I have said those things to Sam? We were both irritable and tired, but that wasn't an excuse. Sam had been on edge for days, high one moment and downright tail-spinning the next but…his girlfriend had died five days ago. He had every right to be irrational, and yet I was lashing out at him, because of it.

Less than a week. My father had been tail-spinning for 22 years, and I had given my brother _less than a week_ before bailing on him.

Sam had been testing me, pushing all my buttons. He had been fighting me, the world, _himself_, every second since the night his life had collapsed. He was going down, kicking and screaming, and I hadn't even heard him.

"_Why don't you just leave, Dean?_

I had been too hurt and worked up to hear the trembling of his voice.

"_Is that what you want?"_

To see the small, nervous hesitation before he nodded.

"_Fine__."_

And then it finally sank in. The expression on his face when I started the car: all rage gone, eyes wide in disbelief. In fear.

He had pushed me that far, because deep inside he was sure I would be strong enough to take it. Strong enough to see through his defensive front and stay no matter what. But what he didn't know was that my own insecurities after four years apart from him would get in the way. And that because of those insecurities, I would prove him wrong.

"God, Sammy," I whispered, "I'm so sorry."

It was nightfall when I started the car and headed back to Stanford. At that point, I could only hope that it wouldn't be too late.

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

**Mmmm…hating me already? I think I feel the vibes. Only one chapter to go, plus an epilogue, so…imagine what's coming ;-)**

**Love!!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hello, everybody! Well…here we are…last official chapter ****and I'm climbing the walls because I'm not sure it came out as I wanted it to, but I guess that's a kind of feeling we all get, right? Right? Right? nervouslaughescalatingintohystericallaugh ahem…**

**Well, again thanks to all the readers. I love you****, guys (you, you, you…and **_**you**_** too!), more than I can probably express with words. I hope the "moment" won't disappoint you, but hey, this said, don't forget that there's an epilogue and what I call epilogue is usually a normal chapter with a last dose of "moments".**

**Anyway, enough with the **_**captatio benevoletiae**_**, I hope you like it!! And If you don't, don't hesitate to tell me (yeah, I'm meaning especially **_**you**_** ;-)). Thanks Em for your help!!**

**On with the story:**

-9-

When I got back, the hotel room was dark, and our stuff was scattered all around. I hadn't even bothered to make a quick stop to pack my things when I left, which to be fair, had been just plain stupid.

"Sammy?" I called.

I switched on the lights and quickly looked around the room.

"Sam?" I called again, my attention darting to the bathroom door.

Since I got no answer, I walked to the bathroom and verified that it was empty. Back in the middle of the empty room, a familiar sense of anxiety crept through my stomach. I had left Sam alone in front of his burnt apartment expecting…what? For him to _walk_ back to a motel that was on the edge of town? What if something had happened to him on the way? What if he had gone back inside the apartment and repeated the ritual? What if…?

Suddenly, my cell phone rang. I was surprised by the sound and ended up turning my head so fast I almost pulled a muscle. The phone was on the desk, just where it had been since morning.

So, I hadn't taken the cell with me either. Just one more stupid thing to add to the list.

I thought the call might be from Sam, but I didn't recognize the number on the screen. I frowned and hesitated with my finger hovering over the talk button. Then I saw I already had about a dozen missed calls from the same number, and the trepidation coiling inside my belly tightened its icy grip.

"Hello?"

"Dean? Is that you?"

"Yeah, who's this?"

"It's Simon. Thank God you finally picked up!"

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

Simon's apartment was a medium-sized, second-story flat that was well-furnished and seeped normalcy through every crack of paint. It had the typical happily sloppy decor of a student's apartment and was a statement of the eclecticism of its owner's tastes rather than an example of matching curtains and upholstery.

At any other time, I would have cringed at the coziness or maybe would have thought of some smartass remark that would express my derision of this type of life. But in that moment, the only thought that came to my mind was how cold Sam's apartment had been in comparison to Simon's. It was as if there had been much less of my brother there than there was of his friend here.

Obviously distressed, Simon let me in right away. He hadn't told me much on the phone, only that Sam was at his place and he needed me to come.

"Where is he?"

One of the girls I had met on the night of the fire—I think Martha was her name—was sitting on the couch. She stood up and crossed her arms as soon as I got in.

"He's in the spare bedroom, in the back." Simon answered, nodding towards a door down the hall.

"What happened?" I asked, repressing an urge to bolt to the door.

"I'm not sure…Martha found him outside of his…what's left of his apartment. He was just standing on the sidewalk, like catatonic," Simon babbled.

I swallowed hard. I had pictured Sam going back to the motel and tearing my duffel bag apart in a fit. I had pictured him clenching his fists and walking back into the burnt apartment to resume the summoning of the demon so that he could face it, as he said he would, without my help. Hell, when Simon had called I had simply imagined Sam had opted to call his friends and spend the night with them.

What I never imagined was that Sam would simply stay where I had left him. Never that. The idea of my brother frozen and alone in the middle of the street had been completely out of the question.

"Is he alright?"

"He's got cuts on his arms," Martha intervened dryly. "He said that you were gone and hasn't said a word since. Hasn't eaten or moved! We've been calling you for hours! Where were you?" she asked, accusingly.

I glared at her, and she glared right back at me, unflinchingly. I was the one who averted my eyes first.

"Martha…" Simon chided. "Please, Sam doesn't need this."

She glowered at him for a beat but was appeased by her friend's pleading stare and sat back down on the couch with tears in her eyes. Simon turned back to me.

"I'm sorry about this. We thought…We thought he tried to…"

I nodded before he had a chance to finish the sentence. It wasn't hard to envision what they might have thought after seeing the blood on Sam's arms, and there was no need for any of us to conjure up that particular image right now.

"We didn't know what to do, and we couldn't find you," he finished guiltily.

I could see they had been worried sick, and I instantly felt miserable. Of course Martha was wary about me; I hadn't really given her any reason not to be.

"No, man, _I'm_ sorry. We…we had this fight and I just…"

"No need to explain," Simon said, shaking his head. "I knew you couldn't be gone."

I breathed out an unsteady laugh. How could _he_ have known, when Sam had obviously believed the contrary and I…I honestly hadn't been so sure myself?

"Do you mind if I—" Feeling obliged to ask Simon's permission, I indicated the door to the room where Sam was.

"Sure," he said, and smiled. "Go ahead. You need anything, just yell."

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

Unsure of what I was going to find, I entered the bedroom cautiously. The only light in the room came from a small bedside lamp. There was a bed in the middle of the room and a desk against the wall opposite the door on the right and a small dresser on the left. Heavy curtains were drawn over the window that was above the desk.

After a quick scan I spotted Sam's mop of hair behind the bed. He was sitting on the floor with his back against the side of the bed, and he had his knees pulled to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. I let out the breath I had been holding and willed my heart to stop pounding so hard as I closed the door quietly behind me.

I went around the bed slowly, because I didn't want to startle him. And yet every step I took without him registering that there was somebody else in the room was like a knife aimed at my heart. It was impossible that he hadn't heard me already. My brother was a hunter, a very good one.

Maybe he had heard me, but he thought I was Simon or Martha.

Maybe he didn't give a fuck anymore.

"Hey," I whispered, as I towered over his slouched frame.

Sam's shoulders shook slightly, and his fists clenched around his knees, but other than that he didn't move. He wasn't looking at me at all, instead he was staring emptily at the wall in front of him with eyes that were slightly glazed over. I remembered how Simon has described my little brother's state as catatonic, and I had to bite my lower lip hard to swallow down the wave of nausea that rose in my throat at the thought.

"Hey, Sammy?" I called him again as I crouched awkwardly next to him.

Still, my brother didn't react and it took all that I had in me to blink back the tears that stung my eyes. The sight of the cuts on his arms —which had been properly cleaned, either by Martha or Simon— reminded me of how I had wanted to hurt him back in the apartment. Now I could barely bring myself to touch him for fear that I'd break him more than I already had.

"Sam?" I repeated thickly. "C'mon, man, you're scaring me."

I had seen Sam in very dark places before but never like this. In the past, I had known how to pull him out, and he had allowed me to do it. But this time it was my fault. It didn't take a genius to understand he was in shock. Finally, after one week, Sammy had snapped, and it hadn't taken his girlfriend dying above his head, but me ditching him afterwards.

I would have given anything to erase that look from his face. My life for his, my life for Jess'. My life for a single second of seeing some familiar spark lit back in his eyes.

Tentatively, I reached out and ghosted a hand over his shoulder but hesitated as soon as I sensed him tensing under my palm. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a second. Then I placed my hand gently over his shoulder, and after a beat I gave him a soft squeeze.

"Sammy?"

His shoulders tensed. I was a second away from pulling my hand away again, but at the last moment I changed my mind. Shaking him definitely wasn't an option, but I needed to reach him somehow. I set my jaw as I cupped his chin, gently but firmly, and forced him to turn his head to me.

"Look.At.Me," I ordered.

_Pleaded_, really, because seeing him in that condition was killing me. Sam shouldn't be like that, shouldn't look so damn broken.

But then, Jessica shouldn't have died. And probably I shouldn't have come and turned his life upside down after four years. Maybe he shouldn't have left for college in the first place. But then, that shouldn't have been an issue for either of us.

I shouldn't have been so damn terrified to lose him that I ended up pushing him away instead of pulling him closer. I shouldn't be sitting there absolutely helpless because at some point along the way, my own uncertainty had taken from me the ability to understand his grief and get him through it.

I shouldn't be so afraid to let go of a betrayal that really wasn't one; shouldn't be so afraid to let go years of holding back my feelings. I shouldn't be so afraid to question why Winchesters had to be tough, why Winchesters didn't hurt, and why Winchesters didn't need comfort, especially from other Winchesters.

The only one of us who hadn't been born a Winchester had died.

And that shouldn't have happened either.

"Sammy, _please_. I need you to look at me now, okay?" I muttered hoarsely when his eyes seemed to look right through me. "It's _me_. It's Dean."

His breath was quiet, almost imperceptible in the silent room. But I still noticed the small catch that came a split second before he blinked confused eyes into focus and finally met my gaze.

"Dean?"

His voice was so small I had to strain to hear him. His tone was achingly dull. And his eyes…They were scarily devoid of…_him_.

"The one and only," I said, giving him a little, relieved smile.

My poor attempt at humor was lost on my brother, who frowned as if he was hearing me from under water. His lips moved without forming words like he was trying to make sense of something he couldn't understand. I think that, in part, his confusion was what undid me: because being unable to understand something was a kind of distress that my brilliant brother wasn't supposed to feel. Ever. I don't think either of us had been forced to deal with that kind of scenario before.

"Dean," he repeated, his voice merely a whisper as he reached out for me.

I held my breath and remained perfectly still, expectant, as his hand found my shirt and gripped the fabric uncertainly. His fingers flexed, as if they sought some kind of solid reassurance that I wasn't a figment of his imagination.

"Yeah, Sam," I reassured him, "I'm here."

I grasped the hand caught in my shirt and rocked over my heels to kneel in a more stable position. My eyes flickered down to his injured arms, and I took in the band-aids covering the deepest cuts.

"You gave your friends quite a scare," I commented casually. "What are you doing on the floor?"

Sam glued his eyes on the carpet, looking suddenly ashamed. Vunerable. Young.

"I can't move," he muttered.

"What?"

"I- I can't move," he said, a bit louder.

"What do you mean you can't move?" I asked with a frown.

"I can't. I- My…legs won't…" he stuttered, trying to explain.

I figured he meant that he was cramped and brought my hands over his knees, thighs and shins without giving it much thought. As afraid as I had been to touch him before, checking my brother in search of injuries was second nature to me and came without any awkwardness. Sam didn't flinch. Apparently he wasn't in pain. Besides, I felt his muscles responding normally to my touch

"Your legs are fine, Sam," I said, swallowing a bitter taste in my mouth.

Physically, he was all right. But that could only mean that mentally he was worse than I had thought. He probably became aware of that fact too, judging by the shine of alarm that flashed behind his eyes after my words. Sam dragged in a slow, shuddering breath. His eyes remained fastened on mine, and I felt my defenses shatter when they watered.

"What's wrong with me?"

He was scared and had all his barriers down. I could tell by the way his glazed eyes latched onto mine, searching, pleading. I could see him, the real Sam, lurking under the surface and looking at me with such intensity I thought he was trying to breathe in my words. And, truth be told, that was just fine by me, as long as he kept breathing. I didn't want to think what would happen if he slipped a bit deeper over the edge and, just as his legs had decided to stop responding, his lungs gave up and his heart said enough.

I rubbed his thighs and shins gently like I was trying to get them warm and forced a calm voice.

"You're just tired, man. Nothing's wrong with you."

"Something has to be," he countered.

I frowned. Something in his voice told me he wasn't referring to just his legs.

"Why would you think that?"

He looked back up at me with so much pain in his eyes I was amazed he had managed to keep breathing so far. And the worst of it was that I recognized the look. It was the same look he had given me the night of the fire, during those few, agonizing seconds when all his emotions had been in the open before he had shut the world out.

We were back at square one. It was my second chance to get it right.

"Sammy, don't," I said sternly. "Don't you do this to yourself."

He tried to avoid my eyes, but I refused to give in. I had been running from confronting Sam long enough. I took his jaw and forced him to look me in the eye. He complied, but for a second he looked so damn vulnerable that I automatically relaxed my hold so he wouldn't feel trapped.

"Jess' death wasn't your fault."

Sam shook his head and looked down. The tears that had pooled in his eyes quietly started to trickle down his face.

"Hey, hey, hey," I soothed, following my instincts for once and leaning closer to him.

To my surprise, he mimicked my gesture and leaned against me. It was almost too easy, if I think about it now. Back then, I smiled sadly to myself at the sudden certainty that all the time I had wasted waiting for him to tell me what he needed, he was waiting for me to figure it out by myself. To figure out that he still was my baby brother, and that I had had the answers in me all along.

That we both needed to reconnect just the same.

"God…I thought you had left. I- " Sam swallowed again.

"I'm here, Sam. Just…Don't cry, kiddo…"

"I told you to leave," he said, shaking his head weakly. "I told you to leave for good…and you _left._"

"Ah, c'mon," I teased, "it's not like I ever listen to what you say."

"I'm sorry."

I shook my head, but his long fingers found my sleeves and dug into my arms with an unexpected urgency.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Shh," I hushed, trying to cut off his tirade. "It's okay."

"Dean…" he said and choked brokenly.

"I hear you, bro," I muttered, mindlessly wiping the trails of his tears with my thumbs. "I'm sorry too."

He hiccupped softly and closed his eyes. I leaned over and rested our foreheads together. Sammy stilled. I could feel his breath, heavy with tears, tickling my face as I ran my fingers through the hair on the back of his neck. We quietly remained like that for a couple of minutes. And I don't know why, but after days of strained and uncomfortable silences, the absence of words wasn't oppressive or uncomfortable anymore. As fucked up as the situation was, it was ours. For once, we weren't hunters, or hardened grown men, or even Winchesters. We were just Dean and Sam. We were human. And we were brothers.

We were closer to Mom.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't…I don't feel so good?" he confessed.

I could have laughed at the naked innocence of his words. At their simplicity after all the times he had repeated that he was fine, lying to us both and fooling no one.

"I know," I sympathized. "But you will. Let me help you to the bed, okay?"

"I'll fall," he whispered, matter-of-factly.

"No, you won't," I said in fierce reassurance.

_I won't let you._

While both of us kept our eyes closed, I sensed him swallowing and then taking a soft, quivering intake of air. Finally, he nodded against my forehead and wrapped his long arms around my neck. It was a sweet gesture, almost shy. The pressure of his arms against me was solid and comforting in a way that reminded me of all the times he had climbed onto my lap as a child needing me to soothe his fears away.

What he had never known was that he was the only one able to soothe away mine too. And I had every intention of keeping that a secret as long as I could.

In that very instant, something very intimate that I had tried to outgrow for years, but which still had remained buried deep inside my soul for the last four, untied inside me. All the tenderness we had shared while growing up, when it was him and me against the world, came back to me with such intensity that all I could do to keep the tears at bay was to bury my face in the crook of his shoulder and breathe deeply into it.

Sam sensed my distress and gave the back of my neck a tentative squeeze. I squeezed him back for a long moment and then shifted gently so that I could haul him up.

"Here we go."

My voice cracked, but it didn't matter. I stood up and got Sam on his feet and safely wrapped in my arms. Then I helped him sit on the bed and coaxed him to lie down. He reluctantly let go of me and immediately curled on his side so that he could avoid the sight of the ceiling. I kept a hand on his waist for a second before clearing my throat.

"I'll get you a blanket, okay?" I croaked.

I waited to see him nod and then got up and retrieved a blanket from the closet. In less than a minute I was back by his side and had spread the blanket over his body. Afterwards, I sat on the edge of the bed and swept a hand over his cocooned form before settling it on his head and brushing some hair behind his ear.

"Get some sleep, Sam. It's been a long day."

"Stay," he pleaded. "I'm so sorry, Dean, please…Just stay."

And I could have laughed then too, if I hadn't been crying so hard.

"Not going anywhere, kiddo."

"Promise me."

His voice wavered at the end. There were so much tension and pain trapped inside him that I could feel them radiating off his body and into mine as sharp and clear as if the emotions came from me instead of him.

"I promise."

The moment I said the words, I felt the first real sobs shake his curled frame. Sammy was drowning. And it killed me to think that all that time all he had looked for was my permission to try and get back to the surface.

"I promise, Sammy," I repeated.

He took in a shaky breath and his hands wrapped needily around my wrist. I let his fingers entangle with mine in a blind search for assurance while he burst into tears. I squeezed his hands firmly and just pulled him closer and held him tight through the body-wrenching sobs, as a way to prove I was staying, and wouldn't let go, no matter what.

Until then I hadn't understood the extent of what those four years had stolen not only from me but from both of us. Sam was stubborn, and proud. And he had been just as scared of me as I had been of him.

He hadn't allowed himself to break down until he was completely sure that I'd be there to hold him together and pick up the shattered pieces afterwards. And I was going to have a hard time forgiving myself for whatever part I had had in making him doubt that I would.

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

**Mmm…not my best breakdown, I guess, for some reason it came out sweeter than "angstier". But I was in a sweet mood?**

**The epilogue is coming. If you're reading this, thanks again!**

**xx**


	10. Epilogue

**Well, this is it. It's been a long journey (although, luckily, it was sh****orter than Lawrence Revisited, God, that took AGES) and I want to thank you all for sticking with me until the end. I hope it was as enjoyable for you as it was for me. Let's see if I can sleep tighter now that I've gotten this story out of my system…**

**Nah, unfortunately I've got a couple more plots on mind already, hehe. But don't worry, you'll have a break: you know I'm a slow writer!**

**Thanks again! Em, you've been an angel.**

**Enjoy the epilogue (aka chapter 10, I don't even know why I call it epilogue yet, maybe because it's the last?)**

**Love xx**

-10-

I barely slept that night. At first, because I was too wired to let go of wakefulness. So many things had happened over the last days, over the last _hours_, that I guess I was still trying to wrap my mind around them. Besides, I was scared to let my guard down. Every time I had done so in the last week, something had happened that had pulled Sam away from me. I couldn't let that happen again. I wouldn't relinquish the hold I had finally got on him. Not for the world. Just the mere idea made me want to wrap my arms around him even tighter, and the only reason why I didn't was because I didn't want to wake him up.

Bottom line, _no_. I wasn't giving my little brother away _ever_ again.

As hours went by, though, I started to relax a bit, despite myself. Sam's breathing was even, his body warm and solid, nestled easily against my chest. It felt right. It really seemed we would be alright. I closed my eyes, but I still remained awake for a while longer, listening to Sam sleep. I think that some part of me was waiting for the ever present nightmares to strike again, and that's the reason why I was reluctant to give in to the growing pull of sleep.

However, nightmares didn't come and, honestly, I was too grateful and tired to try and find a reason why. I think I dozed off at some point near dawn, but I didn't fall deep. The first rays of light had me back into the conscious world. Sam had barely stirred in all that time, but somehow we had gotten ourselves comfortable; I woke up with my arm around his waist, his back to my chest. As soon as my mind registered his breathing pattern I realized he wasn't really asleep anymore. Then it occurred to me that he must know that I had woken up too.

The awareness set a light feeling of self-consciousness over my stomach, but it wasn't enough to get me moving. I didn't feel ready yet. I didn't feel _he_ was ready either. And so, I allowed us both to lie still and enjoy the moment of peace. Just a little bit longer. Because, hell, it might not be the kind of coping our dad had instilled into us, but we had earned it.

Right?

I breathed in deeply, and smiled when he did the same. There was no use in pretending we weren't awake anymore, so I began stroking his arm lightly. Since I wasn't expecting him to show any reaction in particular, I was startled when he flinched.

"Sorry," I mumbled awkwardly, starting to pull back.

"No," Sam said ruefully, catching my wrist. "It's just…my arm."

I had forgotten about the cuts on his arms, and immediately I felt bad. Sam shifted uncomfortably. Probably he was reliving the previous day's events just as I was, and we were both taking the blame for them.

"How are you feeling?" I asked him.

He gulped. After a beat, his answer came out hoarsely.

"Better," he said with a little shrug.

I released the breath I had been holding and felt a bit warmer inside. My little brother was better, maybe not _fine_ ―thanks God, he hadn't said _fine_— but better, and I was ready to take anything I could get.

"You think you want to head back to the motel?"

Sam tensed and took a second before replying.

"Do you mind if we stay here for a while?" he asked. "Just like this. I know it's…"

_Weird. Awkward. Uncalled for. Weak…_

"Okay." I cut him off, knowing what he was going to say ―what he thought that I thought― and instead of that I supplied the truth. "It's okay."

He sighed, and I smiled inwardly when I felt the tension melting away from his body all over again. Mindful of my brother's wounds, I gave his shoulder a soft squeeze and ran my fingers over the upper part of his arm.

"I can't believe I'll never see her again, you know?"

"Yeah," I said and nodded.

"I just…I _need_ to find what killed her, Dean," he continued, an edge of despair tainting his voice.

A shade of apology held in his tone.

"I know that, Sam," I replied calmly. "I told you, we will. But _together_, alright? You're not alone in this."

Sam fell silent for a while, obviously mulling over my words. I hadn't wanted them to come out reproachfully, even though less than 24 hours after my brother's solo stunt, it was inevitable that I sounded a little freaked out. If I had to be honest, I _was_ still a little freaked out.

However, what was done was done. Sam had already apologized for it ―profusely, by the way. I had told him we were okay, and I had meant it.

"I'm sorry about Jess, Sammy." It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't told him that yet. That he might not know it. "I really am."

Sam shifted and I loosened my hold on him. I propped myself on my elbow for a few seconds, until he made himself comfortable. Then I laid back down next to him.

"You didn't know her," Sam said softly.

"Well, I'm sorry about that too," I said honestly, hoping that he'd understand that it had been too damn long since we'd last seen one another.

Sam nodded against the pillow and tugged at my wrist in a silent plea for me to wrap my arms tighter around him.

"I missed you," he whispered, "I missed this."

"Dude," I chuckled softly, "we've never been like this."

Sam huffed, but I could picture his lips tugging up slightly. And then:

"You've _always_ had my back, Dean."

Strangely enough, no awkwardness followed his words. After all, they were nothing but the plain truth.

"Always will, little brother. Always will."

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

We decided to lay low the next couple of days. The second night, Simon and the others told us they wanted to do something special in Jessica's memory. Most of them hadn't bee able to make it to her funeral and anyway, as I was surprised to find out, they seemed to think such a mourning celebration wasn't worthy of her. She deserved something better.

They organized a nice night on the beach, by a nice bonfire. With a _nice_ amount of booze. I would have laughed at the irony: all those normal, college students with their normal lives and bright futures ahead wanting to honor their friend by getting wasted on the sand. It certainly sounded like something _I_ would do.

Anyway, I wasn't sure whether Sam would be up to it. He hadn't talked much since his breakdown, but he seemed calmer, more balanced, and I was afraid to risk that.

However, when he heard about the plan, he smiled softly and said he was in. I searched his gaze intently, looking for some sign of reluctance. If he was just being polite but didn't really want to go, I would have no problem being the bad guy and declining on behalf of us both.

As if he could read my thoughts, Sam met my eyes steadily, telling me he was okay with it. I tilted my head an inch, needing him to be really sure, and he gave me a reassuring nod.

As a result, we headed out to the beach and planted our camp at sunset. I knew that Sam was good at starting fires, but it turned out that his friends knew what they were doing too. At some point during the night, I learned that it wasn't the first time they organized a party like that. On the contrary, it was something they used to do to unwind after exams or when they weren't in the mood for clubs. Sitting among those people, enjoying the cordial warmth of the fire, I came to understand what my brother had seen in every one of them.

Simon was kindhearted and loyal; no wonder Sam had chosen him as his best-friend. And if Simon was his best male friend, Rebecca was undoubtedly his best female friend. Attentive and nonjudgmental, she watched over him with an easiness that could only come from a close pal and confident. Her brother Zach was a laid-back guy, very friendly and tolerant, always ready to crack a joke.

Christine was a sweet, caring girl, with a calm demeanor that was in alluring contradiction with her sparkling eyes. Even Martha, who had been Jessica's best friend and —as I finally found out— was currently Simon's girlfriend, turned out to be quite a funny, witty girl. She had simply been behaving protectively around Sam, and if there was anyone that could understand and forgive her coldness on account of that, it was me.

I learned a lot about Jessica too. How she had been a charming, bubbling girl, devoted to her friends. How she had been not only beautiful, but intelligent as well. The more I heard, the more I regretted that I never had the chance to know her and be a part of the life Sam and she had shared.

As hours slipped and shots were tossed back, stories came and went. My brother sat by the fire through the night, listening quietly as he drank himself into oblivion, slowly, deliberately, with the same focus and meticulousness he did with everything else. He had a serene expression on his face and a faraway look in his eyes. Every now and then though, a particular anecdote brought a smile to his face, which proved that, despite everything he was actually paying attention to every word that was said.

I let him get trashed. Honestly, he deserved a good buzz and I was happy enough to remain by his side and sip the same beer for hours, so that when the time came I could drive him home safely. I discovered myself tossing glances at him every couple of minutes. The glow of the flames gave his eyes a golden, dreamy gleam under the honey bangs, and his too long hair along with the slight flush that colored his cheeks made him look achingly young.

The need to protect him was overwhelming. Primal. Almost physical.

A couple of hours from sunrise, Sam sighed, got on his knees to stand up and announced that he was going for a walk. I wasn't sure that it was a good idea to let him go alone. As a matter of fact, I didn't want to let him out of my sight at all. However, in tune with my wariness, he turned to meet my gaze and, for a split second, I glimpsed a soft, reassuring _I'll be fine_ smile in his eyes.

I was going to stand up, but he stopped me with a hand on my shoulder, and then used it to support himself as he got to his feet. Sam swayed for a second, and I remained absolutely immobile, allowing him to use my balance to regain his. My brother acknowledged it with a gentle squeeze, and then he let go.

Sam's friends rose, one by one, and hugged him warmly goodbye. My brother hugged them back and then staggered off down the beach, along the shore. Lulled by the heat of the bonfire and the muttered words and giggling of Sam's friends, I lied back on the sand and followed my brother's pace through half-closed eyes, until he disappeared.

The party died down by itself after a while. Little by little, everyone started leaving. Zach and Rebecca were the first to part after saying their goodnights. Christine, who had snuggled by my side at some point during the night, was the next one to rise, but only after leaning over me and kissing me softly on the lips. I stood to see her go and then turned towards Simon and Martha, who looked at me with sensitive smiles that were lit by the embers of the dying fire. Martha advanced first and gave me a hug, which as unexpected as it was, compelled me to return the embrace.

"Thanks," I whispered.

She pulled away, her face softened, and then she stepped back. I raised my eyes and met Simon's. He pulled something out of his jacket and gave it too me. It was a picture of Sam and Jessica. I narrowed my eyes.

"This…this was at…"

"Sam's apartment, yeah. It was taken with my camera," he said. "I thought that you might keep it. Maybe Sam will want to have it, after a while, I don't know, when it doesn't hurt that bad? When he'd like to have something to remember her by."

At a loss for words, I stared at the picture and then back at him. His lips tugged up as he patted my arm and nodded.

"Take care," he said, and smiled.

"Yeah," I croaked, "you too."

They went away with their arms wrapped around each other's waists. Their natural and relaxed affection was something so strange, I couldn't help feeling jealous and bewildered by it. I saw them off and sighed. Somehow, I was sorry they were gone. But I was also glad that it would finally be only the two of us. Only Sam and me. In a way, it was the _normal_ I craved.

I extinguished what was left of the fire and went down the beach to look for Sam.

**oooooooooooooOooooooooooooo**

I found my brother sitting on a bench by the sand, a couple of miles from where we had set camp. He was bent forward, elbows on his knees, and gazing into the distance. Unwilling to disturb him, I approached slowly, but then his eyes flickered over mine. He gave me a rueful smile and returned his attention back to the sea.

I took that as permission and sat on the back of the bench with my left knee brushing his right shoulder. His eyes remained set on the sea, and mine wandered for a few seconds, darting from my entwined hands to the back of my brother's head. It bothered me that I couldn't see his face, but judging by the line of his shoulders, he didn't seem tense or especially upset. Of course, with all the alcohol he had in him, it was a miracle he was conscious at all.

"They left?" he asked.

His voice was soft, with only a slight slur on the edge. Any other person would have missed his words, since they were so low they could easily be swallowed by the crashing of the waves.

"Yeah."

Sam nodded, a simple gesture that held so much sadness I had to shut my eyes and swallow to get a grip on myself. Since the night of my brother's breakdown, I had been feeling strangely connected to him. It was as if his emotions seeped into me through an invisible channel. I had always been able to read my little brother, but now, after four years and seven days of suffocating silence, I could actually feel the pull of our bond.

It felt weird, but in a good way. It made me feel vulnerable and exposed when I was around him, but on the other hand it was intoxicating to feel that the familiar sensation of loneliness no amount of drunken nights had been able to erase was finally gone.

"I can leave too," I started tentatively. "If you want to be alone…"

"No, it's alright," he answered quickly, his voice trembling slightly. "Don't go."

Relieved, I accepted his answer and stared back at my hands. A couple of minutes passed in silence until my brother spoke again in a faraway tone.

"It was here, on this bench," he said. I tossed him a curious glance. "The first time we kissed," he elaborated. "We were at this bonfire party with the others and decided to take a walk. We ended up here."

I nodded in understanding. Now the knowing glances among Sam's friends when he said he was going for a walk made more sense. I already knew that Simon and the others had thrown the party not only for Jess, but for Sam too. Now, after hearing his first words about Jessica that weren't laced with pain, I was incredibly grateful for it.

Sam needed to talk, and he needed me to listen. And that was exactly what I intended to do.

"I was nervous as hell and babbled like an idiot for like…ages," he continued. "I was racking my brain to find something interesting to say, so that she wouldn't get bored and leave. And she didn't leave, she just sat there, listening with this…tiny smile on her face."

Even without seeing him, I sensed that Sam was smiling at the memory.

"At dawn, she looked at me so intently that all I could do was shut my mouth. I thought I had blown it…But then she leaned over and kissed me."

I chuckled softly.

"Don't tell me, you fainted!" I teased, bumping my knee playfully against his shoulder.

Sam nudged me back, but other than that, ignored my remark completely.

"She told me later that she had decided to give me until the first ray of light to make up my mind and ask her out. And since I didn't, she had to do it herself."

"You are such a dork," I said and laughed.

"Yeah," he huffed. "Luckily for me she was more…" he paused and then blurted, "well, like _you_. I mean, not sluttish…"

"Hey!" I protested with feigned indignation.

"…But straight-forward, you know?" he continued. "Or we would never have gotten over the beating around the bush part…"

Sam trailed off and gave a dejected sigh. I knew what he was thinking.

"Don't do that, Sammy," I said, speaking evenly and shaking my head. "Don't regret it. She deserves better than that."

"She deserves to be alive, Dean," Sam retorted with a bitter edge to his voice. "It wasn't worth it. It was just a dream. A fucking lie. It would never have worked. You're the one who told me that."

"She loved you, Sam, and that wasn't a lie."

"She didn't even know me."

"Of course she did. She may not have known everything about you, but she knew the most important parts. She knew the best part of you."

"You're wrong." His voice sounded thin, and I ducked my head to try to see his face from under his unruly bangs. "The best part of me wasn't here."

The lump in my throat became painful, and all I could manage was a nervous huff.

"You're drunk," I muttered.

And as if to prove my point, I reached out and ruffled his hair, intending to play down the emotions of the moment. When his head bobbled slightly, I couldn't bring myself to disentangle my fingers from the silky hair on the back on his head. Before being completely aware of what was happening, he was timidly leaning against me, and I was guiding his head to rest on my knee.

"Yeah," he sighed wearily, "I guess I am."

I stroked his hair slowly, almost hesitantly, mesmerized by the warm pressure of his face on my leg and the tickly sensation of his soft bangs running along my fingers. I found myself wondering when the hell Sam's hair had grown so much, and how come I hadn't noticed it before.

"Are you ready to call it a night?" I questioned him.

My own voice sounded foreign to my ears, strangely tender, suspiciously hoarse.

"I want to wait until sunrise," Sam said softly. "Then we can _go._"

I frowned, registering what was implied in the intonation of his voice.

"Go?" I asked tentatively.

"Yeah."

"Are you _sure_, Sam," I pressed, wanting nothing but absolute certainty.

"There's nothing else we can do here," he said, half shrugging. His voice fell into a whisper. "Besides, we have to find Dad."

Suddenly wary, I stilled my hand and shook my head.

"It doesn't have to be today," I offered.

"Yes, it has to," Sam countered, his tone firm. "Or I won't be able to leave at all," he added.

I couldn't deny that, somehow, I had already known it would be our last night in Stanford. And I realize now that his friends must have known it too. The bonfire, the sad smiles and heartfelt hugs had been their good-byes. The end of _normal_. My brother's defeat.

It wasn't fair, I told myself as I held my breath and remained silent. I struggled to make sense of the fucking world and our fucked up lives for the umpteenth time in the last 22 years, since it had all gone to hell. And just like all the times before, my brain entered into a loop of endless _Why, why, why_ that lead nowhere and was becoming increasingly hard to escape sane.

"Dean?"

I blinked myself back to the real world and pushed my lungs to cooperate and breathe out. Unfair as this world was, my brother was still there, resting against me with such open trust that it made my stomach churn.

"Okay," I reassured him, "sunrise it is, then."

Sam, who had been holding his breath too, gave a soft, relieved sigh. Then he shifted to lean into my hand as he burrowed himself deeper against me.

"Hey, don't fall asleep, kiddo," I chided. "It's starting to get cold."

Sam shook his head almost imperceptibly and muttered a drowsy "I won't" that made me smile. Really, there was no point in calling him out on it, when I was working against my own advice by resuming the lazy petting. But the truth was that I liked to sense how Sam relaxed against me, not only because he needed it but also because it was thanks to me. There was something intimate and soothing about the ritual that reminded me of before. Before Stanford, before the continuous fights, before the adult self-consciousness, before…Just before.

I closed my eyes, and focused on Sam's breathing, which was slowly evening out. He had curled a hand around my jean-clad ankle, and I felt the tug of the fabric as he absently fingered it. I smiled to myself. Having him there with me calmed me down. But knowing that he _wanted_ me there with him was enough for my world to make a little more sense.

"It was a beautiful dream, you know?" he said in a hushed, almost reverent tone.

There were tears in his voice. I could feel them seeping through my clothes. But he sounded serene, and all I could do was admire the man he had become.

"Yeah, I know."

That was my brother now. Full-grown and extremely young at the same time. Forever my Sammy, but from now on my Sam. Sitting there, we waited for the sunrise, knowing that once dawn came, we would be back on the road, and everything would change. I could hear it in his voice, the hunter was being reforged. I could also sense it in my blood, which roared mutedly through my veins inflamed by my hatred for the thing that had killed our mother and Jessica.

After sunrise, we would answer the call and become hunters, avengers, un-grieving Winchesters again.

That would be after sunrise, though. For the time being, we could just be brothers sitting together on a bench and enjoy the feeling that the missing years between us didn't matter anymore.

**-THE END-**

**Any final thoughts? See you soon, guys. You're the best!**

**L**


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